Heartbreak Hotel
by thewhitekitten
Summary: When Harold Finch is pickpocketed blind by a starving acrobatic, it's up to Reese to apprehend her and retrieve the stolen belongings. But where do you hide a paranoid prodigy with no fingerprints, no digital footprint, ridiculous phobias, and a very long list of enemies? Unfortunately for Finch, it doesn't matter. She's already decided to keep him. AU
1. Stranger Danger

**This story may eventually contain swearing, violence, naked shenanigans, dirty jokes, organized crime, disorganized crime, Fusco eating a doughnut, ripped pants, grand theft auto, grand theft pizza, multiple situations involving Harold Finch and Victoria's Secret, 27 gallons of chocolate milk, inappropriately flirtatious Root, and a pet pigeon in desperate need of a bath.**

 **The severity of these topics will be determined entirely on how much coffee I drink. Enjoy.**

* * *

 _2011, New York City_

"Think I should go for it, Pistachio?"

The grey pigeon, nestled in the inner breast pocket of her tailored parka, cooed conspiratorially.

"Rich old guy with a limp," she whispered to the bird, tucking away her binoculars and fluffing her hair. "Damn, it's our lucky day." With her target locked on sight, Kitty gracefully climbed down from her perch at the top of a fire escape and assimilated into the busy push and pull of the New York lunch hour. The older man wasn't even paying attention. He kept tapping at the Bluetooth device secured in his ear. _Too easy,_ Kitty thought as she stumbled in her high heels and slammed into him.

Harold Finch was supposed to meet Mr. Reese at this location five minutes ago, and the tardiness of the man had Finch on edge. The last thing he expected at a time like this was to be pickpocketed by a beautiful woman in broad daylight on the wealthiest street in New York. The collision pushed him backwards and pinned him between Kitty's delicate body and the painfully solid stock exchange building behind him. His paper cup of chi green tea sloshed all over his new suit, staining the light grey fabric with a large dark blot.

Kitty leaned hard against his chest, wrapping her arms around his neck to steady herself. Finch winced as a sharp pain shot up his lower back. Her weight, light as it was, was an unwelcome pressure on his spine. To help alleviate the pain, Finch impulsively reached out and grasped her waist to hold her up.

"Ow, ow, ow, my ankle. I am _so_ sorry," she apologized with exaggerated mortification. "Are you okay? Let me help you." Pulling out a handkerchief, Kitty patted at the stain, secretly identifying where each item of interest was located underneath. With an expert grace, Kitty set to work engaging in intense eye contact. This only ever worked when you smiled hard and talked loud. "I'm such a klutz. These stupid heels haven't been properly broken in yet. I shouldn't be walking in them." She laughed lightheartedly. "I've been stumbling around like a buffoon all day. Again, I'm sorry. This is so embarrassing. I've gone and messed up your nice suit."

"Please, don't trouble yourself," Finch assured her uncomfortably, placing a hand over hers to stop her from scrubbing the stain deeper into the fabric. "I'll just take it to the drycleaners."

"The drycleaners!" she exclaimed. Kitty only had to touch his wrist twice before his watch was gone, deposited in her jacket pockets next to his wallet and a parcel he had tucked away inside his suit. "Of course I'll pay for the drycleaners!" The last item of interest—his cellphone—was extracted and tucked into the back pocket of her jeans. "You want my address? I can send you some money. Although," she cringed, "if the stain doesn't come out, I'm afraid I don't have enough funds to replace that suit. It's probably worth more than my college fund, to be honest."

"That won't be necessary." Finch reached out to steady her when she wobbled again, this time in earnest.

"Thank you," she said, raising a hand up to try and rub the black specks tunneling her vision. "I should probably go eat lunch."

Harold huffed a laugh. "You should probably take those shoes off."

"You know what?" she asked, smiling wearily. "You might be the nicest man I've ever met on Wall Street, Mr. . ?"

"Finch," he answered, briefly shaking the jittery woman's hand. "Harold Finch."

"Molly. It's a pleasure to meet you, but I've really got to get going. Sorry again." Kitty made sure to feign unsteadiness as she tottered off down the street. "Have a great day, Mr. Finch!"

Harold watched the impossibly thin young woman disappear down the street—periodically reaching out to steady herself—and he shook his head in exasperation. He didn't understand this younger generation and their obsession with dangerously high heels. The girl would probably end up breaking her ankles by the end of the day, all in the name of fashion.

"Finch," came Reese's low silky voice. "You never mentioned you were so popular with the ladies." He studied the tea stain and nodded. "Nice suit. Do you always leave it unbuttoned?"

Harold turned towards the taller man with relief. "Where have you been? You're almost ten minuets late."

Reese eyed the unknowing man, amused. "How would you know? You don't have a watch to check the time."

"What are you talking about?" Harold retorted. "I'm wearing my—" The sentence died on his lips as his looked down at his disheveled appearance. His fingers probed nothing where his cellphone should be. He patted to check for his wallet, also gone. Realizing all at once what happened, Finch closed his eyes and sighed heavily.

"Finch," Reese quipped, "I believe you've just been pickpocketed."

"I don't see how this is funny, Mr. Reese." Finch searched for the packet containing evidence for their latest number, but the girl had taken that too. "She took the evidence."

"Took your tie, too."

"My tie . . . how in the hell did she take my tie?" Harold rubbed at his eyes. "I didn't feel her take anything."

"Don't worry, Harold," Reese teased. "It's only natural to enjoy yourself when an attractive woman cops a feel. "

"I don't appreciate your crassness, Reese. In case you've forgotten, we need that package to prove Officer Malone's innocence."

"Guess I should get it back then, right?"

"Alright, let me think" Finch recollected, "she was about this tall, brunette, dressed in a—"

"I know."

"You _know?_ " Harold snapped.

"I stood back and watched her rob you." With one last smirk in Finch's direction, Reese took off in pursuit, glancing over his shoulder to yell, "Button up your suit, Harold. I'll be right back."

* * *

"Let's see what's on the menu today, shall we?" Kitty walked two blocks away before finding another fire escape to climb for safety. She squatted on her haunches, as she always did after a theft, ready to spring away at the first sign of danger. "Bet this watch is worth a fortune. Tie's got to be worth something, too. Now for the main attraction." Kitty flipped open the expensive leather wallet and searched for bills. "You've got to be kidding me, Pistachio. Two dollars and . . . seven cents. All that work for two dollars and seven cents? What kind of rich asshole only carries around two dollars in cash?" She clenched the wallet tightly, her hands trembling with rage and starvation. "Son of a _bitch!_ "

"Excuse me, miss?"

Kitty sprang to her feet, searching the ground for the speaker. It was a fairly young man—crisp, clean, nice dark suit. He gave a small wave. Calmed somewhat to discover it wasn't the man with the limp, she yelled, "Yeah?"

"I believe you have something of mine," he shouted up at her. "May I have it back?"

Kitty leaned a little over the railing. "Who the hell are you?"

"I'm just here for the package you pickpocketed off my friend," Reese announced. "Just toss it down, and we'll go our separate ways."

Kitty had yet to open the mysterious parcel. It weighed heavy in her hand and peaked her curiosity, doubly so due to this strange man's request. The wallet was a bust, and who knows how much the local pawnshop would give her for the watch, tie, and cellphone. Not nearly enough, she suspected. This parcel may be the silver lining. "Aaaaaaaah, no," she answered.

"Finch, we've got a problem."

Finch hobbled stiffly to a bench to rest and rub at his sore back. "What is it, Mr. Reese?" he questioned into the Bluetooth. "Did you lose the girl?"

"I've got eyes on her as we speak, but that won't be for very long." Reese watched as the girl hopped, leaped, and swung her way up the fire escape at an impossible speed. "She just reached the top of a fifteen story building in under ten seconds. In stilettos, I might add."

"It's alright," Finch huffed into the earpiece. "I still have my GPS tracking equipment in the car. She took my cellphone. We can track her that way."

* * *

Harold typed furiously on the keyboard setup to a small portable monitor in the passenger seat. "She's heading back down Carlisle Street, Mr. Reese. Wait, no, she's turning around again."

Reese snorted his disproval. "I don't see her, Finch."

"She should be around there somewhere."

"Wait. Got her."

Harold watched the two red dots on the GPS monitor as they slowly converged. "Do you have her?"

"No."

"My radar indicates you two are in the exact same location," Harold announced, slightly more than a little annoyed at the situation. "She has to be there somewhere."

Reese entered the alleyway and looked around. No fire escapes for her to climb. No dumpsters or trashcans to hide behind. "I don't see her."

"Did you try looking up?" Finch suggested.

"Hello," Kitty said when Reese spotted her high up on her latest perch. She clung to a thick laundry line extending from one building to the other.

"Hello," Reese answered.

"Are you working with the Russians?" she asked.

Reese tilted his head. "No."

"The Chinese? The Mafia?"

"No."

"The Mexican Mafia?"

"I'm not affiliated with a gang," he answered.

Kitty puffed up indignantly, baring her teeth in warning. "You working for the government?"

"No, I don't work for the government."

"Then stop following me!"

"Toss down the package," Reese offered, "and you'll never see me again."

"What's in the package?"

"That's confidential."

"How about this," Kitty announced happily. "I open up this thing, and if I don't like it, I toss it down to you."

"NO!" Reese roared. "No," he said more softly, "you'll get your fingerprints all over it."

Kitty threw back her head and laughed. "Oh, my dear little mugger boy, I don't have any fingerprints." She wiggled her fingers at him, even though she was too far up for him to see the scars where her prints should be. Kitty settled herself on the line, and began ripping through the paper.

Reese did the only thing he could think of in the situation. He pulled out his gun, aimed at the edge of the rope, and shot three bullets clean through, snapping the rope in half. Kitty screamed all the way down, even after Reese caught her and set her upright.

"Now, are you going to behave—" A sharp right hook silenced his offer. Bringing up a hand to wipe away blood from his lips, Reese frowned at her retreating figure. "Finch, she's really starting to annoy me."

"Did you lose her _again?_ "

"Girl can sprint faster in heels than I can barefoot. Balances perfectly on the middle of a clothesline. Scales brick walls like Spiderman. Finch, who the hell is this?"

"I don't know, but whoever she is, she's heading towards Trinity Church."

Reese rounded the corner and halted in his tracks. The girl had been stopped in the middle of the street by a black SUV full of armed men. One by one they exited the vehicle, guns drawn. "Get in the car, sweetheart," one of the men commanded, his Russian accent just barely audible.

Clearly panicked, she spun around to flee, running conveniently into Reese's arms, only this time it seemed voluntary. "Help," she gasped, eyes wide with fear. "They stuck me in the neck—" There was something else she wanted to say, but the drugs took over, and her words slurred into meaningless garble as her body went limp.

"Who is that?" one of the men asked, waving their gun at Reese.

"Kill him," the driver ordered. "Get the girl, and do it quick. I'm tired of waiting."

Gunfire broke out, bullets lodging deep into the wall nearest Reese. He ducked back into the alleyway with the girl slung over one shoulder. "Start the car Finch, I'm on my way back."

"Reese?" Finch inquired nervously. "What happened? I heard gunfire."

"Start the car, Finch."

One of the Russians had rounded the corner of the alleyway. "He's getting away with our money!" the man yelled franticly. His gun popped three shots before Reese cleared out onto the sidewalk towards the waiting car.

Finch opened the back door as Reese approached. Reese carefully rolled the woman off his shoulder and placed her in the backseat of the car.

Harold eyed the woman worriedly. "Is she hurt?"

"Just unconscious. You're going to want to sit in the backseat and hold onto her. I'm driving. We've got six angry Russians on our ass."

Reese slammed the driver's door shut and whipped the car in reverse, spinning around in a sharp circle, before throwing it into drive and speeding down the road. "Hold on tight, Harold. Looks like we've got two more cars on our tail."

Finch cradled the young woman in his lap as Reese took sharp turn after sharp turn. Reese took a particularly sharp turn, and the girl's head rolled sharply to the side, scattering her hair away from her face and revealing the purple half-moons under her eyes. Up close, Finch could see what he did not notice during their first encounter. Her makeup was minimal, but what she did wear was smeared or flaking, as if she hadn't washed her face in days. Similarly, her hair was matted and greasy at the roots, her fingernails dark with dirt, a small cut split her chapped lips. "This girl has been on the run for quite some time."

"Get down, Finch."

The back window shattered into a million pieces. Reese glanced over the headrest to fire a few retaliation shots while Finch bent over at a painful angle, shielding any part of the woman he could with his own body. A few jolts and the car sped up even more, tearing down the street towards the main highways. After what seemed like an eternity, Reese slowed down to a legal speed.

* * *

"What do we do now?" asked Finch. "The Machine didn't give us her number, but those men seemed fairly organized in their abduction attempt. If this was premeditated, I don't know why her number didn't come up."

The two men had decided to take her to a safe house in Brooklyn—a rather lavish apartment on the thirty-forth floor of the complex—but now that she was settled comfortably on a spare bed, neither of them were completely sure what to do next. It had been almost an hour past the point Reese assumed the drugs would wear off, but the girl still showed no signs of waking.

"Girl doesn't have many friends," Reese commented. "Asked me if I was affiliated with every major crime syndicate in the country. Including the government."

"Is it true about what she said? About not having fingerprints?"

"Want me to check?" Reese lifted up one of her limp arms and inspected her hands. "Fingerprints have all been seared off. Skins all mottled."

"Do you think she did it?"

"Why don't you ask her yourself?" Reese checked her pulse. "On second thought, you might not get that chance. Pulse is dangerously low."

"Well, we can't take her to the hospital—"

"—because if the Russians can track her down in an alleyway, we'd just be making their job easier by bringing her out in the open," Reese finished. "It's best if she wakes up and eats something. Looks like she hasn't had a decent meal in a while."

A solid mass pounded hard against the inside of her jacket, begging release like a chest alien being born. Finch took a step back. "What on earth is that?"

Reese slowly unzipped the jacket.

Pistachio burst free from the inner pocket and flapped furiously around the room, cooing loudly. Once he had his bearings, he swooped down and pecked at the men's heads until they backed up away from his master enough for his liking. Landing on Kitty's stomach, the agitated pigeon walked the length of her unconscious body and back, bobbing his head with every step. His coos had evolved into a wheezing noise coming from deep within his chest, so he sounded more like a duck than a pigeon. Reese extended a hand towards the girl, and Pistachio responded by snapping his sharp beak protectively and wheezed even louder than before.

"This is a first, even for me." Reese glanced sidelong at Finch, his lips twitching in a rare smile. "I've never heard of an attack pigeon before."

"Please tell me she still has the package."

Reese accepted multiple sharp bites from Pistachio as he extracted the partially unwrapped package, Finch's cellphone, tie, wallet, and watch. "I think I'll pay our friends in the SUV a visit and get some answers. They seemed to know who she is." Reese handed Finch his personal belongings. "I'll deal with Officer Malone on my way there."

Finch followed the man to the door. "What am I supposed to do?"

"Stay here in case she wakes up. Try and wake her if you can. Get some food in her system. Who knows," Reese remarked with a small smirk, "you might get more information out of her than I will out of them, considering your first meeting went so well."

Finch frowned his disproval. "Get going, Mr. Reese."

As soon as the door was shut behind him, Finch pulled up a chair beside the young woman's bed, careful to keep a far enough distance to placate her pigeon. Ten minutes went by before he began to grow worried the woman would never wake up.

Pistachio kept guard diligently, pacing to and fro, emitting a raspy warning even though Finch hadn't approached. The bird seemed to be staring straight into his soul with his beady black eyes, and whatever he saw, he didn't approve.

"Oh, hush," Finch chastised. "I'm not going to hurt either of you."

Pistachio fluffed up in response.

"I know you think you're doing her a favor, but right now what she needs is food, and she can't eat if she's not awake. So, if you'll just let me— _ouch!_ " Finch retracted his hand and rubbed at the welt already rising on his index finger.

Kitty inhaled sharply, eyes opening and rolling from side to side. "Millie?" she called out _._

At the sound of her voice, Pistachio stopping hissing at Finch and hopped up onto Kitty's chest, cooing softly and nestling in the crook of her neck.

"Pistachio?" she whispered, barely strong enough to turn her head enough to look at him. "You okay?" Then she noticed Finch, siting stiffly in the chair beside her, and she screamed.

* * *

"Come on, fellas," Reese bargained. "It didn't have to come to this."

A pile of groaning men lay rolling in pain. Half of them had a bullet in the leg. The lucky ones only suffered broken noses and a massive migraine.

Reese stepped over an unconscious body and made his way back to the street. "Finch, did the girl ever wake up? I've got her name. Mildred Krause. Apparently, there's a bounty on her head. The guys didn't know much else about her." No response came, so he tapped his device again. "Finch. Did you hear me? Finch, are you there?"

When Finch finally answered, his voice was strained and winded. "Hold on," he panted, out of breath. The sound of a struggle picked up over the earpiece, and Reese could hear the girl screaming in angry Russian. Something made of glass shattered.

"Finch, what's happening?"

"She's trying to jump out the window," Finch explained. The struggle continued as Reese hurried back to the car. Suddenly, it stopped, and Finch's voice came back over the line. "I think I have the situation under control, Mr. Reese, but I would greatly appreciate it if you'd hurry back."

* * *

Reese wasn't exactly sure what to expect when he burst through the door of the apartment, but what he found was bizarre enough to warrant an amused raise of his eyebrows.

The window at the far end of the bedroom was partially open, the curtains swaying lightly in the breeze. Seated uncomfortably next to the window was Finch, his arms and legs wrapped entirely around the woman to secure her against his chest.

"It took you long enough," Finch complained.

"Looks like you can handle yourself." Reese took a glass of water—surprisingly unbroken—off the serving cart laden with food and kneeled before the seething woman. "The sedatives those men gave you have severely dehydrated your system. You're delirious, and you need to drink."

She muttered something in Russian and spat at his feet.

"What did she say?" asked Finch.

"I don't know, but I'm sure it wasn't polite. Mildred," Reese said, watching for a response. "We're not going to hurt you, Mildred. We want to help you. But we can't help you when you're like this." Reese held out the glass of water in offering.

Hearing the name seemed to break the woman out of her violent rage. She blinked rapidly, surveying her surroundings, and looked down, confused, at Finch's arms crossed tightly over her chest. "Can you let me go, please?"

"Are you going to drink this water and behave?"

Kitty eyed the glass of water and secretly wondered if it was poisoned. "As long as my cuddle buddy says it's okay."

Finch released his hold on her as if he had been burned.

After guzzling down two glasses full, Kitty slumped over, eyes drooping. "I'm so tired," she whispered.

"Here, you need to eat something before you sleep." Reese helped her walk to the bed and handed her a small bowl of chopped fruit. "Eat it, or you might not wake up in the morning."

Kitty lifted a strawberry up to her lips, but her struggle with Finch had exhausted the very last of her energy reserves. It had been almost three days since she ate anything, and even then the meal had been nothing more than a child's partially eaten hamburger she plucked out of the trash. Tremors rocked through her body, causing each piece of fruit she grabbed to tumble out of her fingers before reaching her mouth. She stared at the bowl, not bothering to try again.

"May I?" Finch had taken a seat at the edge of the bed. He'd watched in silence as the girl tried to feed herself to no avail. Reese had long since exited the bedroom to check up on Fusco, and it pained Finch to think about the girl trying to sleep without eating first.

Kitty eyed him wearily, a small smile tugging at the edges of her lips. "You may. It's Mr. Finch, isn't it?"

"Please, call me Harold." Finch speared a slice of strawberry on a fork and lifted it to her open mouth. "It's Mildred Krause, correct?"

She scrunched up her nose. "Only my mother is allowed to call me Mildred. You may call me Kitty." She studied him for a moment, and her eyes softened. "You really aren't working for the government, are you?"

"No." Finch shook his head. "I consider myself a . . . concerned third party."

"I apologize for pickpocketing you earlier."

"Oddly enough, I think it saved your life." Finch stabbed a banana slice and brought it to her waiting mouth."You mind telling me why those men tried to toss you into their car?"

"No idea." She chewed the fruit methodically, whether for the enjoyment of the flavor or because she was dangerously close to blacking out, he didn't know. "They must have mistook me for someone else."

"Are you sure? Because my associate tells me those men wanted to cash you in for a bounty." He observed the woman for any signs that she was lying, but he was overwhelmingly struck by how near-death she looked. "Your name is Mildred Krause, is it not?" Finch found he couldn't look her directly in the eyes, and considering she hadn't stopped staring at him since he began feeding her, the feat was easier said than done.

"You're a very handsome man, Harold."

Finch opened his mouth, but discovered he didn't know how to respond. "Thank . . . you?" he replied quizzically.

"Where's Pistachio?"

Finch furrowed his brow in confusion, and then relaxed. "Oh, the bird! Yes, he's . . . ah, there he is." The grey pigeon flew down from his perch on a curtain rod and nuzzled up against Kitty's side. "You've got a loyal bird, there. Wouldn't let me touch you while you were unconscious."

Kitty accepted a blueberry from Finch's fork, arching an eyebrow in question. "Why were you trying to touch me while I was unconscious?" She smiled at his uncomfortable silence and leaned in closer. "Don't worry, Harold. Luckily for you," she purred and placed a hand on his knee, squeezing gently, "I adore birds."

"Yes, well . . ." Finch swiftly stood up and fumbled with the half empty bowl of fruit, deciding at last to place it on the nightstand next to her bed. "I'll just leave that there."

Kitty sat up straighter when he turned to walk out the door. "Where are you going?"

"Reese will stay here with you tonight, Miss Krause. I'll be here in the morning to bring you some breakfast. Please try to get some sleep." He closed the door behind him, thankful to be away from the awkward situation, and even more thankful that Reese had not been present to witness it. He turned towards the kitchen and found Reese leaning good-naturedly against the wall right outside the bedroom.

"I told you she likes you."

"I'll be at the library," Finch snapped. "Keep your phone on."

* * *

"Mr. Reese?"

"What'd you find, Finch?"

"I figured out why the Russians want her so badly." Finch clacked away at the keyboard, bringing up window after window of Mildred's mug shots and translations of the Russian scrip written underneath. "And I'm afraid they won't be the only one's trying to abduct her once word of this gets out. The Russian government just put a warrant out for her, alive and unharmed."

"What'd she do?"

"It doesn't say what she did. It just says how much her reward is worth."

Reese inspected the contents of the fridge before settling for some eggs. "How much are we talking about?"

"Are you sitting down, Mr. Reese?" Finch stared at the wanted poster in awe. "One billion US dollars."


	2. Meanwhile, Back at the Batcave

_1997_ _Wetzlar, Germany_

 _Mildred leapt from the bed to the small open space next to her sister._

 _Kitty shifted her seat on the floor to ensure the hyperactive girl didn't leap onto the tiny welding pen she was using. "Don't bump me, Mildred," Kitty snapped._

 _"Want to play dolls?"_

 _"No."_

 _"What are you making?"_

 _Kitty glanced up from the tangled web of wires and metal piled in her lap and gave a small smirk of amusement. "A robot."_

 _Mildred's face lit up. "You're really making me one?"_

 _"You asked me to."_

 _Mildred hopped from one foot to the other. "Is it a maid robot?" she asked excitedly. "Can it fold my clothes? Can it do my chores? Oh, oh, oh! Can it braid my hair?"_

 _"I don't know," Kitty answered evenly. "I haven't finished it yet."_

 _Mrs. Krause knocked on the doorframe of the bedroom to alert the girls of her presence. She smiled fondly at the sight of the two seated together on the floor. "What are you girls doing?"_

 _Mildred shot up and ran to her mother, all smiles. "Natasha's building me a robot!"_

 _"Is she?" Mrs. Krause patted the small girl on the head and slid past her into the room. Stacks of books she hadn't noticed before were meticulously piled under her older daughter's bed and up against the wall. She lifted one off the floor. "Electronics Technology Handbook. Encyclopedia of Electrical and Electronics Engineering." She lifted a particularly thick volume and raised her eyebrows. "Microelectromechanical Systems? Natasha, where on earth did you get all of these?"_

 _"Please place those back in alphabetical order." Kitty didn't bother looking up from her project. Small wisps of smoke wafted to the low ceiling from where metal melted against the heat of the welding pen. "Professor Boer let me borrow them."_

 _"And did he give you that tool as well?"_

 _"Yes, mama."_

 _"Well, you're going to have to give it back." Natasha didn't put up a fight when her mother took the welding tool away, but her face promptly folded into a seething grimace. "Don't look at me like that," Mrs. Krause begged. "I'm just worried about you, dearest. You spend all your free time shut up in this room." She took Natasha's face in her hands, brushing back strands of the girl's brunette hair, and gently coxed her to look up. Unlike her other daughter, Kitty's dark eyes lacked a spark of childlike wonder with the world and seemed to always be void of any and all intense emotion. "Natasha, your teachers say you don't have any friends. Is this true?"_

 _"I don't need friends," Kitty deadpanned. "I have Mildred."_

 _"My love," Mrs. Krause said, kneeling before the somber child, "you know I support your little . . . projects. I do. But girls your age need socialization."_

 _Kitty pulled away, wrapping her arms defiantly around the small robot prototype._

 _Mrs. Krause stood up and sighed in defeat. "I'm sorry, Natasha, but you no longer have a choice. I've signed you both up for ballet lessons after school."_

 _Kitty's project slipped from her grasp and clanked against the floor. "No, mama," she stated firmly. "Please, no."_

 _"It will be good for you to leave this room and spend quality time with your sister," she bargained. "And . . . maybe you'll make some new friends."_

 _"Yaaaaaaaaaay!" Mildred squealed with glee. "We're going to be ballerinas, Natasha!"_

 _Mrs. Krause watched as Mildred pranced cheerfully around her sulking sister, who refused to budge even when Mildred wrapped her arms around Kitty's shoulders and rocked to and fro._

 _Mrs. Krause's friends had all assured her it was normal for young girls to go through phases of reclusiveness from time to time, but the phases were lengthening the more Natasha matured, and Mrs. Krause was starting to worry there was something psychologically wrong._

 _At only seven years old, Natasha's innate social awkwardness had blossomed into a hostile lashing out when placed with other children, and the primary school teachers had already reported her disturbing behavior to the psych department at the children's hospital. The teachers claimed that although Natasha was making unsurpassed strides in science and mathematics, she had no friends, showed absolutely no interest in social interaction with either sex, and once severely beat a boy over the head with a rock due to an insult he made that had resulted in Mildred's tears._

 _In fact, the only people—including Mrs. Krause herself—that Natasha even attempted civility with was her younger sister, Mildred, and the elderly physicist, Dr. Boer, who lived just down the hill from them._

 _Mrs. Krause felt a sinking forlorn ache in her chest at her blatant inability to understand her daughter's troubled mind. She withdrew to her room and retrieved the hidden reference book_ _Diagnosing Mental Disorder_ _that she kept out of sight at all times. Flipping to the five dog-eared pages marking her five best guesses at a diagnosis, she once again read through the descriptions in a desperate attempt to provide help, before the hospital decided to take her child away for good._

 _Ch. 4: Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder_

 _Ch. 7: Bipolar (See also: Manic Depression)_

 _Ch. 10: Asperger's Syndrome_

 _Ch. 12: Schizotypal Personality Disorder_

 _Ch. 18: Antisocial Personality Disorder (See also: Sociopathy or Psychopathy)_

* * *

Kitty sprang awake coated in a thin sheen of sweat, gasping and clutching at her throat.

It was still hours before sunrise. The room was cloaked in a heavy darkness, the only light filtering in through the curtains came from the glow of the hotel across from the apartment building. She couldn't hear the honks of the cars down below on the street, but she did hear the slight exhale of another person.

Shooting up and back against the far wall, she recoiled on her thighs, preparing to spring in whatever direction needed. Recognizing the man, she slowly relaxed. "What are _you_ doing in here?"

"I'm just here to make sure you don't try anything stupid. We're currently thirty-four stories high. Jumping out the window isn't recommended in your state." Reese leaned back in his chair. "Hope you don't mind if I make myself comfortable. I cooked some eggs, if you're hungry."

Kitty hopped back on the bed and gathered the offered food in her lap. "Where's your dashing gentleman friend?" she asked in-between mouthfuls.

"Figuring out who you are. I've got fifty dollars on _rich politician's daughter._ " The conversation lulled for a long stretch of time as the two silently scrutinized each other. "Your name's not Mildred."

It had been silent for so long that Reese's statement startled her. Her hands froze halfway to shoveling more food into her mouth. "Excuse me?"

"You talk in your sleep," he explained. "Kept calling out for someone named Millie. I'm guessing that's short for Mildred. Which means you're someone else."

"A name's just something people call you for identification." Kitty hummed to herself and squinted her eyes. "My name is Mildred because I say it is."

"What's your real name?"

She smiled mischievously and leaned back against the headboard. "It can be whatever you want it to be."

Reese decided on a different approach. "Who's Mildred? A friend?" He paused. "Family member?"

"You sure ask a lot of questions for someone who supposedly doesn't work for the police."

"Like I said before, we aren't working for anyone."

"And I'm supposed to believe you're protecting me out of the kindness of your heart?" She sighed. "I'm young, not stupid."

"Any idea why there's a bounty on your head?"

"I was wondering when you'd bring up money." Kitty finished the last of the eggs and licked her fingers. "How much am I currently worth?"

"Russian government is offering a reward of one billion US dollars."

Reese hadn't even finished the sentence before she was doubled over with laughter. "Oh, that's rich. I hate to break it to you, sweetheart, but if you try and claim that reward, all you'll get is a bullet in the head."

"What makes you say that?"

Kitty calmed her laughter and wiped her eyes. "Let's just say they don't exactly have the best track record for payouts."

"Then I guess it's lucky for the both of us that we're not interested in any reward." Reese leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "We just want to help you. But helping you is significantly more difficult if we don't know who you are."

"I appreciate the offer, Mr. Reese." Kitty's smile sank into a genuine sadness as she slumped back against the headboard, gazing blankly at the curtains. "But you can't help me."

"As long as you don't leave this apartment, we can," Reese countered. "The second you step out onto those streets, there's not much I can do."

"I'm not talking about the Russians." Kitty blinked as if waking from a stupor. "Watch me, if you must. I'm going back to sleep." She curled up under the blankets. Twenty minutes later, she was snoring softly.

Reese slipped out the door and tapped his earpiece. "A billion dollars?"

"Seems a little excessive, if you ask me," Finch replied. He had spent most of the night researching the origins of Mildred's wanted poster, but so far the search had been fruitless. "Most likely a front to ensure her safe return, but it seems to be working. It got our friends in the SUV's attention, at least."

"That's exactly what she said." Reese looked back at the sleeping woman and traveled further down the hallway. "Finch, her name's not Mildred. She's pretending to be this Miss Krause to protect the real one."

"I'm not finding information on any American women named Mildred Krause. Not anyone alive, anyway." Finch brought up yet another death record and quickly closed it. "It seems that hasn't been a popular name since the 1920's. I'll keep searching."

* * *

Finch lifted the whistling teakettle off the stovetop and poured the boiling water over a bag of green tea he had placed in his favorite mug. Steam clouded the brisk winter air as he made his way over to the large window overlooking the city. An afternoon sun shone bright over the surrounding buildings as he cooled off his tea and took a hesitant sip.

A familiar voice broke through the peaceful silence. "Finch? You there?"

"Yes, Mr. Reese?"

"Just thought you should know Officer Malone has been cleared of all charges. Made it home to his family just in time for his son's birthday." Reese watched the family reunion from the car. When he was satisfied with the safety of the situation, he pulled away from the curb and headed back to the apartment. "How's our mystery woman holding up?"

Finch took another calming sip of tea. "She's still sleeping."

"You know that as fact?"

"What do you mean?"

"Are you watching her sleep?" Reese shook his head at the silence that followed. "Finch, have you been in her room at all since I left?"

"I didn't see a need to," he answered awkwardly. "You said she was asleep."

"It's been five hours since then!"

"Alright, calm down," Finch grumbled. "I'm checking on her right now."

"If she hasn't tried to scale the building by now, I'll die of shock."

Harold gave a tentative knock at the door and waited for a response. When none came, he gave an equality timid knock and called, "Miss Krause?"

"Is she in there?" Reese asked.

"I . . . I don't know. She's not answering."

"Then go in there and check," Reese chided. "Don't tell me you're _afraid_ of her, Harold."

In truth, he was. Just a little. "Don't be ridiculous," Finch retorted. "I simply value privacy, especially that of a young woman. You know that." Bracing himself for whatever lied beyond the door, Finch grasped the cold handle and eased it open just enough to peek inside.

The bedroom window was fully open, the curtains floating weightless in the breeze. "Oh, no," Finch whispered, hastily shambling to the other side of the room and peering out the window. To his great relief, there were no signs of a crowd gathered at the base of the building, although he couldn't see the woman climbing down, either. She was simply gone.

"I'm forty-five minutes away, Finch," Reese updated. "How's she doing?"

"I . . ." Finch stumbled for the right words. Her stilettos were neatly upright at the foot of the bed she had meticulously made before her departure. He picked one up and sighed. "I'm afraid I've botched this rescue attempt rather badly."

Reese exhaled. "I take it she's flown the coop?"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Reese. I should have—" Harold stopped midsentence. Someone was in the kitchen. He listened intently for another sound, and when the distinct clanking of a glass reached his ears, he dropped the shoe and shot towards the door. Kitty had jumped up onto the countertop and was searching through the contents in the highest cupboards. "What are you doing in here?" Finch exclaimed.

"Trying to find some decent food to eat," Kitty replied from halfway inside the cupboard. She was barefoot and had discarded her parka on the back of a kitchen chair. Underneath the jacket she was dressed in nothing more than a thin cotton shirt that clung to the sharp outline of her ribs. "Where do you boys keep your liquor? Oh, nevermind." She emerged with a large clear bottle of vodka. "Found it."

Finch approached with equal parts irritation and relief to find her still in the apartment. "How did you get in here?"

"If memory serves me well, you abducted me and locked me in this place." Kitty hopped down off the counter and landed soundlessly next to Finch. "Not that I'm complaining. I think being held hostage in a high tower technically qualifies me as a Disney Princess, and I've _always_ wanted to be a Disney Princess." Pistachio emerged from the cupboards, a saltine clamped tightly in his beak, and landed happily on Kitty shoulder. "Hey, I've even got the cute animal sidekick. It's a done deal."

"No," Finch clarified, "I mean, how did you get in the kitchen? I've been here all day, and I never once heard you leave your room."

"That's because I just left." With the vodka bottle in one hand and a glass of ice in the other, Kitty made herself comfortable at the kitchen table and began pouring a liberal amount of the clear liquid into her cup. "I heard you knocking and decided to hide. I was holding myself up high over the doorway when you so rudely barged into my room. Slipped out into the kitchen while you were busy lamenting my apparent escape out the window. No offence, but you're not very difficult to skirt around."

"She's here, Mr. Reese," Finch updated.

"What?"

"Long story." Harold watched in disgust as she knocked back half a glass in two swift gulps. The girl couldn't have weighed a hundred pounds soaking wet, and she just drank enough alcohol in one shot to inebriate Detective Fusco. Finch walked towards her seat at the table with a surmounting worry. "What do you think you're doing with that?"

Kitty exhaled loudly, her eyes already wide from the power of the liquor. "Making myself a salad."

"That's a bottle of vodka."

"This particular vodka is made from potatoes. Potatoes are a vegetable. Salads are made from vegetables. Ergo," she said, holding up her glass in a mock toast, "I'm having a salad."

"Potatoes are a tuber," Finch corrected.

"Then I guess I'm having a tuber."

"I must advise again it. You need to eat something of substance." Before he returned to the apartment to relieve Reese of this job, Finch had stopped at the store to buy groceries. He reached into his pocket and offered her a box of raisins.

"A fruit salad." She held the glass and the box of dried grapes up. "I like the way you think."

"Your eyes still have a little red under them," Finch explained. "Raisins are high in iron. It should help take away the discoloring."

"I'm flattered you're so invested in my wellbeing, but I hate raisins. Don't worry, Finch." Kitty swirled the drink in the glass, clanking the ice. "It'll take a lot more than this to get me drunk."

"Not when you haven't eaten in two days. Look," he said, opening up the fridge and gesturing at the excessive amount of food he purchased, "you can have whatever you like."

It had been a very long time since she'd had a refrigerator, and an even longer time since it had been full of more than just milk. Unable to stop herself, Kitty wandered over to the fridge and peered inside. Each shelf was stacked with packages of meat, containers of berries, and an assortment of prepackaged meals. Kitty inspected each of the items and then slammed the door shut with a disappointed frown. "There's no chocolate milk."

"Pardon?"

"You buy an entire grocery store, but you don't buy chocolate milk?" She settled for a container of roast chicken and sat back at the table, picking the greasy meat apart with her bony fingers. "So, what now?"

"We wait," said Finch. "My associate will be here in a half hour or so."

Kitty took another swig and stared at Finch as he took a hesitant seat across from her. The man placed his clasped hands atop the table and sat rigid, all sharp angles. She appreciated the symmetry of his posture, even more so when the alcohol finally hit her weakened system. When Finch eventually decided to meet her eyes, she smiled lazily. "Are you wondering if the curtains match the drapes?"

"Actually," Harold countered quickly, "I was wondering how a young woman such as yourself falls into the deep recesses of the criminal underworld."

"I have a lot of debts to pay." Kitty shrugged one shoulder, unimpressed with the question. "I've made a few bad investments in my lifetime."

Finch furrowed his eyebrows. "Your lifetime hasn't been very long. I'm curious to know how you racked up a bounty of a billon dollars."

"Is that how much I'm worth now?" Kitty leaned forward excitedly. "I thought your friend was joking."

Finch attempted to take away the vodka, but Kitty slapped a hand on the table to stop him. "I'm not going to let you drink—"

"Shh," she snapped, instantly sitting erect in her seat. Finch watched as her head turned sharply from side to side, eyes wide and alert. She seemed to be listening for something. "Harold," she whispered, "get under the table."

"What?"

"Get under the table, and be quiet," she repeated softly. "There's someone outside the door."

"It's probably John."

"Shh," she warned with a furious expression. "Call him and confirm. And get under the damn table."

Kitty fled back to the kitchen counter while Finch stood out of place by the table, unsure if the effort it would take to crawl under was worth it. "Reese?" Finch called quietly into the earpiece.

"What is it now, Finch?"

Harold startled at the sound of the lock on the front door slowly being picked open. "You wouldn't happen to be outside our door, would you?"

Kitty flew past him back into her bedroom and returned with her stilettos. "Dammit," she mumbled under her breath, "I really liked these shoes." Jamming a butter knife in the shoe's seam, she pried the heel apart to reveal a mess of multicolored wires.

"Harold?" Reese's worried voice came back over the line. "Find a weapon. You need to hide. I'll be there in ten minutes."

Lost in her own little world, Kitty hooked wires together until a small spark sent her scurrying to the front door. She returned furious. "Don't you listen?" Flipping the kitchen table on its side, Kitty yanked Finch down behind it and pried open the other stiletto.

Finch pointed at the wires. "What is that?"

"My absolutely last resort," she answered angrily. "Bastards owe me a new pair of Jimmy Choos. These little shits cost me two thousand dollars. Do you have any idea how long it took me to save that kind of money? Not to mention how long it took me to modify them."

"Is that . . . is that a _bomb_?" Harold whispered incredulously. "I touched it," he remembered, horrified, and leaned back against the table. "I held one in my hand."

"You have a better idea?" she slurred. "Here, I'm going to need you to hold Pistachio." Kitty grabbed the bird around the middle and shoved him at Finch's chest. "Make sure he's covered. Anything happens to him, I'll be pissed."

Harold took the complacent pigeon and tucked him away inside his vest.

"Okay, listen," Kitty continued, "when this goes off, you're going to want to clamp your eyes shut and hold your breath until I say you can breathe, got it? I'll lead us both out of here."

"What about you?" Finch listened as the door clicked open and strained against the chain lock holding it shut.

"Please," Kitty scoffed offhandedly, "I've ingested enough of this to poison a small village. I'll be fine. Oh, and Finch? You're going to want to cover your ears right . . . about . . ." Her thumbs worked frantically at a small keypad embedded in the other stiletto. "Now."

The men at the front door hadn't even had time enough to crash through before the explosion blasted them back out into the hallway. Cloudy white wisps of chemicals floated up, obstructing the view of the open doorway.

"Get up, get up, get up," Kitty chanted indignantly and tugged at Finch's arm.

The violence of the situation had stunned Harold, and the blast had left a sharp ringing in his ears. It took a considerable effort for Kitty to snap him out of his dazed state, and he only remembered her warning about the chemicals at the last minute. As Finch clamped his eyes shut and held his breath, he could hear the screams of the men who had tried to break in.

Kitty kept a tight grip on his arm as he struggled to keep up with her. A fire alarm shrilled through the hallways, signaling the sprinklers to dowse everything in water.

Suddenly, Kitty's pace slowed. "You can breathe now," she said. "Open your eyes. Act natural."

Door after door swung open as floods of panicked tenants evacuated the building in fear. It was no time at all before the hallways were crowded with sopping wet individuals, every person shouting over the other in an attempt to be heard over the fire alarm. A particularly boisterous man roughly shoved himself between Finch and Kitty, and she lost her grip on his arm.

All Finch heard was a frightened "Harold?" before she was swallowed whole by the crowd.

* * *

It seemed like an eternity before the shouts of _bomb_ died down after the mob had spilled out onto the frozen streets. Finch searched the faces of people around him, but the girl was gone.

"Finch?" Reese's voice betrayed his usual calm demeanor. "Finch, where are you? Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," he answered. "I'm in front of the building. I lost her again."

"I want you to stay with the crowd," Reese ordered. "It's safest if you're surrounded. Go where they go. Keep me updated. I'm almost there."

Pistachio jolted within Finch's vest. He had forgotten about the bird and quickly unbuttoned the material to free him. Flapping away high in the air, Pistachio circled around the surrounding area, eventually soaring down between two buildings.

Completely ignoring Reese's request, Finch limped in pursuit of the bird. Icy cold hands laced through his own, startling him. He turned to find Kitty puffing clouds into the cold air with every breath. Strands of dark hair stuck to her splotchy cheeks, red from the chill.

"Follow me," she stuttered through chattering teeth. "I have an idea."

Once again, Finch found himself being led by the girl as she pulled him into the street. "What are you—?" Finch started, but his sentence was cut short by the rev of a motorcyclist Kitty had pulled them out in front of.

Releasing Harold's hand, Kitty reached down the front of her shirt and extracted a small syringe she promptly sank into the confused motorcyclist's leg. She caught his body as it went limp, dragged him to the sidewalk, snapped on his helmet, and claimed the bike for herself. Flipping up the mask portion of the helmet, she yelled, "Hurry up, Finch!"

Harold hadn't taken his eyes off the unconscious man lying in the gutter. "What did you do to him?"

"He's just sedated. Would you hurry up?"

"This is out of control," Finch muttered to himself. He spun around in a circle, distressed and unsure where to go.

"Look out!"

A gunshot rang through the streets, echoed by the screams of bystanders. Fear and confusion muddled Finch's normally rational mind as another gunshot went off, ricocheting dangerously close to his foot. Adding to the increasing list of rash decisions he had made of late, Finch's fight or flight reflex overpowered him, and he climbed aboard behind Kitty.

Kitty revved the motorcycle and screeched away from the curb.

* * *

The two had wandered the streets for well over ten minutes, waiting for a very agitated Reese to arrive. Kitty had taken them on a lengthy ride over the Brooklyn Bridge and around several residential areas before deciding to park the motorcycle on the side of the road and continue on foot. Despite Harold's jacket—which he forced her to wear, since she left her parka in the apartment—the girl wasn't wearing anything dry. The alcohol had drastically lowered her core body temperature, and although she, miraculously, didn't appear drunk, she was slowly succumbing to the effects of hypothermia.

"You've been real quiet, Harold. Something wrong?"

He had been grappling with the idea of calling the police and being rid of this woman once and for all. She was a danger to herself and everyone around her, and Finch was slowly starting to worry that even he couldn't keep her safe. But she had made it clear that, for whatever reason, she distrusted police, which most likely meant crooked cops would turn her in to whoever issued the reward, and this would all be for naught.

 _Grand theft auto_ , Finch thought miserably. He was never one to get so much as a speeding ticket, and now he had a expanding list of wrongdoings to add to his criminal résumé. "You need shoes." Harold took hold of her shoulder and steered her towards the nearest clothing store. "You'll catch frostbite wandering around barefoot in this weather."

"You're cold?" She smiled fondly through chattering teeth. "That's cute. You should try visiting Russia in the dead of winter. This is nothing." Finch tried to lead her into a woman's fashion boutique, but she pulled away and stared fixated on a tuxedo outlet. "I think I know how to get people to stop following me."

"How?"

"I'll need a few things, but I think this might work." Kitty lifted an eyebrow and held up the wallet she'd taken from Finch's pocket without his knowledge. "Just how much money do you have at your disposal, Mr. Finch?"


	3. I'll Make a Man Out of You

_2002 Wetzlar, Germany_

 _"Natasha?" Mildred eased the bedroom door closed behind her and approached the desk. Her sister sat under a lamp, wholly engrossed in a book with a title Mildred couldn't pronounce. Small bits of computer hardware were placed in some sort of organized pattern on the desk in front of her. Mildred tried again, "Natasha?"_

 _"What?"_

 _"I need to tell you something."_

 _The worried tone peaked Natasha's interest, and she turned completely around in her seat. "What's wrong?"_

 _Mildred sat next to the desk and lowered her voice. "You know those doctors mama keeps taking you to?" She gulped and looked at the door to confirm it hadn't been opened. "They think you're crazy."_

 _Natasha showed no outward signs of distress at the news. "Okay."_

 _"Okay?" Mildred hissed in disbelief. "Did you hear what I said?"_

 _Unconcerned, Natasha turned back around at the desk. "What makes them think that?"_

 _"You stare at people too long without talking to them."_

 _"Since when did observing my surroundings become illegal?"_

 _"They don't think it's good that you don't talk to people."_

 _"Did it ever occur to anyone," Natasha sneered, "that maybe I just don't have anything to say?"_

 _"You need to smile more." Mildred scooted closer, eager to help. "They think you're angry all the time. If you smile more, then they won't think so."_

 _In an effort to silence her sister's imprudent and annoying suggestions, Kitty stretched her lips wide from ear to ear, her eyes widening in what she thought was Mildred's suggestion. "Like this?"_

 _"That's really scary, Natasha. Don't ever do that again."_

 _Kitty promptly dropped the expression. "Smiling when not experiencing happiness is a complete betrayal of emotion. I'm not a liar, Mildred."_

 _"Would you please just try?" Mildred begged. "For me?"_

 _"Try what?"_

 _"To be normal!" she shouted._

 _Kitty raised her eyebrows at the outburst. Mildred was so seldom angry with anyone that when the occasion occurred, Kitty was never really sure what to do. And now the little girl was trembling with emotion, fists clenched tightly at her sides, tears swelling in her eyes. Kitty sighed. "I'm not quite sure what you're asking of me, Mildred."_

 _"Normal people have friends, Natasha. Normal people say, 'Good morning!' when they see people on the street. Normal people go on walks to the village, and are nice to the other students at school, and they like ballet."_

 _Kitty smirked. "Now I think you're just being biased."_

" _Please," Mildred whimpered, "I don't want them to take you away."_

 _Kitty glanced over her shoulder. "Take me where?"_

 _"Don't you get it?" Mildred whispered. "The doctors think you're crazy, Natasha! They want to take you away and keep you somewhere where they can study you."_

 _Mrs. Krause interrupted the girls without even bothering to knock first. "Natasha?"_

 _Mrs. Krause was more an acquaintance to Kitty than a mother. She bought food. She signed documents. She drove Natasha to town to gather more supplies for her projects. Kitty would never harm her mother, but the bond she shared with her sister would never be able to compare. Kitty tolerated her mother._

 _Kitty was not, however, very tolerant of interruptions. "What?" Natasha snapped._

 _"Get out here," Mrs. Krause ordered, flustered. "Your father has arrived."_

 _"Papa?" Mildred questioned with great surprise. "What's papa doing here?"_

 _Mr. and Mrs. Krause had been married a brief three years before settling for a divorce. Although he sent monthly paychecks to help support his daughters, Mildred and Natasha had only seen Mr. Krause a total of four times throughout the course of their life._

 _Mrs. Krause refused to speak of him when the girls asked questions, and the only information they had managed to pry from her was that he was the head of a school for gifted students in Russia, in which he had tried, unsuccessfully, to recruit Natasha for enrollment. Her refusal had always remained firm. Mildred was an average student at best—therefore unqualified for enrollment—and if Mildred was unable to attend the same school, Kitty wanted nothing to do with it._

 _The girls entered the small foyer by the front door where their father stood waiting. He gestured for them to come forward. Mildred rushed to hug him. Natasha stood back, arms crossed in silent contemplation, already theorizing the intent of his visit._

* * *

 _"I don't understand."_

 _"This is a great opportunity for you, Natasha." Mr. Krause cleared his throat and placed his tea on the table nearest him. "This little village cannot help you achieve great things. Your mind is special. It needs to be fostered. My school can give you that."_

 _"I'm not going," Kitty snapped firmly. "I'm not going now, and I'm not going ever."_

 _Mrs. Krause placed a hand on her daughter's arm. "Be reasonable, love. I can't give you what you need to make the most of your life."_

 _"You're giving me away," Kitty surmised with a frown. "You never liked me, and now you're pawning me off on papa."_

 _"Natasha," Mrs. Krause gasped in disbelief._

 _A slowly boiling anger built up inside of Kitty. "I'm not leaving unless Mildred comes with me."_

 _"Mildred has her ballet, and schooling, and friends here. Don't be selfish," Mrs. Krause retorted. "She will stay with me. You may visit as often as you like."_

 _"No," Mildred begged, wrapping herself around one of Mrs. Krause's legs. "Don't send her away, mama! I'll move! I'll make new friends!"_

 _Mrs. Krause had tried, but there was something she would never be able to fix inside Natasha. Medication did nothing, therapy had proven a joke, and Mrs. Krause shuttered to think of what other medical practices the psychologists had lined up to try. It was only a matter of time before the hospitals came calling with mandates to seize her child and whisk her away to God knows where. This was the only solution she could think of._

 _Despite Natasha's sudden verbal paralysis and Mildred's abundance of tears, there was no convincing either parent, and within the next few hours, Natasha's minimal collection of belongings had been loaded up in her father's car._

 _Natasha understood that there was something she was supposed to say in this moment to express her despair, but although she had twelve years to study human behavior and sentimentality, she still did not comprehend it. Instead of a heartfelt speech and tight embrace, she gave her sister a slight pat on the shoulder._

 _Mildred wrapped her arms around Natasha's stiff body. "Don't leave, Kitty."_

 _Natasha despised the nickname Mildred had bestowed upon her in their youth, but she attempted a smile nonetheless. "Mama is right," she said, not believing her own words. "It's best if you stay here and continue your lessons. I'll be back to visit soon."_

 _"Promise?"_

 _"Promise."_

 _Kitty watched out the back window as the car pulled away from the only home she had ever known. Mildred was still crying. Seeing her sister fade into the background, eventually disappearing completely, caused a stone to harden in her chest—a feeling that might have been sadness, but she had nothing to compare it to._

 _"Don't worry about Mildred," Mr. Krause assured her. "She was always overemotional. Not like you," he added, sounding proud. "You've always been my level-headed girl." They drove for hours before pulling over at the side of the road. "I told your mother that village was too small to contain a mind as big as yours. The woman in charge of running the hospital still only used paper documents for all the birth records. So primitive." Mr. Krause reached into a satchel and pulled out a thin file, dropping it unceremoniously into Kitty's lap. "They haven't even backlogged this information onto a computer yet."_

 _"What's this?" she asked._

 _"That, my dear Natasha, is you."_

 _Kitty lifted the file open. Inside was a copy of her fingerprints, footprint, birth certificate, and other official birth documents. "Why are you giving me this, papa?"_

 _Mr. Krause smiled in answer and pushed open the driver's door. Natasha followed suit, following him away from the road to the edge of a small wood. She watched, stupefied, as her father lit the file of documents on fire and dropped them on the ground. "Mildred will grow up to be a dancer. A fanciful, silly girl in a dress. That is who she is destined to be. You," he continued with a glance in her direction, "will be something much greater."_

 _Kitty watched the pieces of paper curl brown, the ashes catching a slight breeze and tumbling away through the air. Everything that made her unique shriveled under the flame until all that was left was a small pile of grey. "If that was me, then who am I now, papa?"_

 _"You are not a Krause, Natasha. That was your mother's family. You are a Rostova."_

 _Her eyes never left the pile of ash. "Mildred is a Rostova, too. She should be here with us."_

 _He kneeled before her, lifting her chin up to look him in the eyes. "You love your sister, don't you, Natasha?"_

 _Kitty thought it through for a moment, then nodded._

 _"And you would do anything to protect her, wouldn't you?"_

 _Kitty gave a more assured nod._

 _Mr. Rostova smiled. "Then she is exactly where she needs to be."_

 _"But—"_

 _"Our country is in danger, Natasha," he interrupted. "That's why I'm here. That's where I'm taking you. We need more minds like yours to help us."_

 _"Danger?"_

 _"The Americans are building something," he said ominously on the way back to the car. "Something very dangerous that we don't fully understand yet."_

 _"How can I help?"_

 _Mr. Rostova drove the car away from the side of the road, pleased that her concern for her sister's safety was all it took to win her compliance._

* * *

 _2011, New York City_

"I think I might make a better man than you, John." Kitty admired her appearance in the mirror, running her fingers through her newly sheared hair. Spinning around sharply on her heal, she spread her arms wide and winked at Reese. "What do you think?"

"I think your mustache is escaping."

Kitty looked back at the mirror and adjusted the makeup on her upper lip.

Reese eyed the front of the store in agitated anticipation. They had been in the makeup aisle of MAC for well over half an hour, and the ridiculously loud pop music playing overhead was creating a migraine deep within his skull. "Is this going to take much longer?"

"Done," she announced happily and nodded at her reflection. The bronzer a saleswoman recommended worked perfectly to create a faux five o'clock shadow all across her sharp jawline, and with a little application of an eyebrow pencil, she had thickened her brows and stenciled in a thin mustache. Before Finch had retreated back to the library, the two had purchased her a tailored suit and a haircut only slightly longer than Reese's. "If anyone still suspects me of being a woman after this, I give up."

"We need to move," Reese announced. Without waiting for a reply, he took her firmly by the arm and yanked her out the door.

"Easy, kotёhok," Kitty complained. "Are you trying to rip my arm out of its socket?"

"I figured if I didn't pull you away from your own reflection, you'd never leave." Making sure to keep a tight grip on the girl's wrist, Reese kept a steady pace headed far away from the infernal store. John was still incensed with Kitty for placing Finch in danger, even though he had yet to reprimand her for it. Finch reminded him that it wasn't her fault men stormed the safe house. Well, technically it was, but it wasn't as if she had summoned them. And she had, however sloppily, gotten Finch to safety.

Fixing Reese with an innocent stare, Kitty inquired about Finch's whereabouts. "Gde moya ptitsa chelovek?"

What would have once been humorous to Reese was now slowly grating on his nerves. And to make matters odder than they already were, Kitty's flirtations were now coming from what looked to be a very beautiful young man. They just weren't as funny when Finch wasn't around to react, since Reese had yet to alert Finch of his fluency in Russian. "We're meeting my colleague for dinner," Reese answered irritably. "Says he has something for you."

"Oh, he does, does he? Ya boyus," she murmured. "Moye telo nebol'shogo razmera."

"Please stop talking."

* * *

"Do you have any Cognac?"

Finch plucked the drink menu out of Kitty's hands, folded it, and handed it to the waiter. "He will have the chocolate milk."

"No," Kitty retorted, "I'll have the brandy."

The waiter peered down at her with a blank expression. "I'll need to see some ID, sir."

"Glupyye amerikanskiye zakony," she snarled at the waiter. "Ukhodi. Vy osel."

"Chocolate milk for the three of us," Reese announced in an attempt to make peace.

Kitty glanced around the dimly lit restaurant at the couples attending their expensive dates, and she snorted loudly. She had passed by this place a hundred times in her search for unsuspecting rich people to pickpocket, but she never had the opportunity to see what lied beyond the tinted windows and imposing security guard posted at the door. "It's not as extravagant in here as I thought it would be," she complained. "What kind of cheap ass date is this?"

Finch slid an entrée menu in front of her. "Pick something to eat."

Reluctantly, she flipped it open and began scanning through the items. Once she realized what they served, her angry expression softened and she became engrossed in the menu.

Finch settled on a Russian fish soup, closed his menu, and extracted a manila envelope from the suitcase he brought. "I have made you a—"

"Where are the prices?" she interrupted. "How are you supposed to know how much anything costs?"

"Just pick something. I recommend the—"

"I have two dollars and seven cents," she cut in, dropping the money onto the table. "Actually, that's your money. I've got nothing."

"Tonight's meal is on me," Finch answered crossly. "Now, if you'll kindly let me speak, I have something important to go over with you."

"No thanks." Kitty tossed away the menu. "I'm already in debt enough."

When the waiter returned to take their orders, Kitty refused to speak. Finch ordered her the same fish soup he had chosen for himself.

"I don't want Ukha." Turning sharply to the waiter, she said, "I want Rassolnik, two orders of Pelmeni, a plate of Shashlik, and a Vatrushka. And more milk. Don't ever stop bringing me milk." Kitty drained the glass of chocolate milk in one continuous gulp after the next, reaching for Reese's glass before he could take a drink.

"Guess your appetite came back," Reese commented dryly.

Holding Reese's already half-empty glass, Kitty asked, "So, what is this thing you wanted to show me?"

Finch handed her the envelope, relieved that this whole mess of affairs was about to come to an end.

Kitty tilted her head. "What's this?"

"Everything you need to start a new life. A fresh start."

Kitty pulled out a New York driver's license, falsified social security card, debit card, and what looked to be upwards of thousands of dollars cash. Instead of the gratitude Finch was expecting, she scrunched her face up in annoyance. "Are you threatening me?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Is this your way of telling me to get the hell out of town?"

Finch exchanged a look with Reese, who had all but abandoned the conversation. "You seem to be caught up in something. I thought you could use some help getting out of the city. I suggest," Finch said with one hand still placed atop the envelope, "you head west. Find yourself a nice place to settle down."

"Aw," Kitty crooned, "that's so nice of you. Thanks." She pulled out the money and promptly tossed the envelope full of documents back at Finch.

"Miss Krause," Finch began irritably.

"How much money is this? I can keep this, right?" Kitty flipped through the bills and tucked them into her suit pocket. "Too late. No take-backs."

Finch worried that not only would this woman result in her own downfall, but her demise would inevitably destroy the lives of innocent civilians along the way. Whether or not she was actually guilty of something no longer mattered. All Finch wanted to do was cease the destruction she left in her wake. "I do wish you would take this seriously."

"I can't leave New York. I'm looking for someone," she answered, sounding bored. "So, as much as I appreciate the sentiment, thanks, but no thanks." Kitty leaned forward towards Finch, both hands on the table, until she was so close Finch had to lean backwards to keep from colliding with her face. She pointed at his untouched glass. "Are you going to drink that?"

It took three waiters to distribute the food. Reese pretended to eat, Finch sipped politely at his soup, and Kitty used two hands to shovel different meals into her mouth as quickly as possible. A stick of meat in one hand and a spoon of soup in the other, Kitty continued to ignore Finch's attempts at persuading her to accept the identification he had made her.

As if hearing a loud noise no one else could, Kitty suddenly stiffened, her eyes darting wildly from Finch to the glittering chandelier hanging a few feet away to the couple seated across the room to the carpet to Reese to the back of the restaurant.

Glancing around the room, one hand already on the gun in his jacket, Reese asked, "What is it?"

Quick as lightning, Kitty scooped up as much of the kabobs as she could and bolted to the front of the establishment, pushing aside several aggravated guests on their way into the restaurant. Reese hurried after her, but as soon as he burst through the front doors, she had simply vanished into thin air.

Finch caught up to Reese out on the busy night pavement, envelope in hand. He was disappointed, but not surprised, to find that Reese had not caught the girl. Harold tucked the documents he had spent all afternoon creating deeper into the envelope and sealed it shut. "So much for negotiations."

* * *

Later that night, miles away from the crowded streets of New York City, Kitty sat at an old wooden table deep down in the damp basement of an abandoned fish market. She had already sent Pistachio away on a mission, and she didn't expect him back until morning. Gas mask placed tightly over her eyes, nose, and mouth, Kitty painted a single bullet in a thick coat of poison she'd invented just for this occasion. Lethal fumes wafted high towards the ceiling, masking the otherwise overpowering stench of rotting sea life.

The poison attacked the central nervous system in multiple waves of excruciating pain. First, ruptured vessels in the eyes caused streams of blood leakage out of the subject's tearducts, eventually causing irreversible blindness. Next to go was the subject's hearing, leaving them virtually senseless to the world around them. It ended in a permanent paralysis in which the subject could no longer see, hear, speak, or move, but continued to breathe, leaving them to endure life in a comatose state of perpetual agony.

Gun loaded and strapped over her shoulder, she headed out into the night. Years of careful practice allowed her to move through the streets as nothing more than an inconspicuous shadow. It wasn't long before she scaled a building and secured a spot high on a rooftop within sight of her target. The air was stale and stagnant this high up, and she smiled at her good luck. Aligning the telescopic sight of her sniper rifle to the doors of the police station, Kitty waited patiently. She would wait for as long as it took.

* * *

Inside the police station, Detective Carter struggled to keep her composure while a barrage of special agents from all different sections of the government prodded her for information about a young German woman. It was frustrating enough that she had run into one dead end after the other with her mysterious man in the suit, and now the government was dumping this girl on her as well.

"I've already told you," Carter protested, "I don't know anything about a Mildred Krause."

Special Agent Snyder had been assigned this case nearly a year prior. His colleagues had assured him the woman had been terminated, so he was more than a little pissed to find surveillance footage of her popping up all over the city. News of her survival had already reached Washington, and if major damage were to happen because of her, his ass would be in very, very hot water. "Detective," Agent Snyder repeated coolly, "the woman we're looking for is a very real threat to national security. Why don't you take another look?"

For the second time this week, Carter studied the photo. According to the confidential files disclosed to her by Agent Snyder, Mildred Krause had been a popular German ballerina who left home in her youth to pursue a more prestigious dancing career in Russia. In 2009, she married an American and moved to New York with her mother. Four moths ago, the three of them perished in their upstate New York home after a mysterious fire burned everything within a mile radius. It had burned so wildly out of control that only a partial skeleton of the mother could be found in the wreckage. After their death, most records of her existence had been eradicated from the Internet.

Carter shook her head. "You want my team out looking for a German ballerina?"

"No, we want your team out looking for her sister." Agent Snyder tapped at the picture of Mildred smiling happily. It was the most recent portrait her husband had photographed and uploaded online before their untimely death. Her deep brunette hair fell to her shoulders in soft, shiny waves, contrasting greatly with the pale white of her skin. Her eyes were wide, dark, and full of child-like innocence. She looked so content with life that Carter couldn't help but breathe a small sigh of sadness that someone so young died such a horrible death.

"No birth records exist proving her nationality," Agent Snyder continued, "or even her relation to this woman, but we believe they were sisters. Identical twins."

"What's her sister done?" Carter had asked the same question the first time these people showed up to her office, so she was thoroughly shocked when she received an answer this time.

"We believe she's a rogue Russian assassin, but as to what she's doing in our country, we're not entirely sure."

"I'll keep a lookout," Carter assured the man. "Let you know if anything comes up."

"If anything does come up," Agent Snyder said, leaning in closer and lowering his voice, "you are under no circumstances to approach her. Do not engage. Call us immediately, understood?"

* * *

Kitty smiled when the front doors to the police station opened wide. She would never understand why the Americans believed themselves to be invincible. Special Agents walked around like they were untouchable. Drove around in their cute little SUV's with tinted windows, as if this meant they didn't exist. It amused her.

"Some people are more difficult to kill than others," her father had told her time and time again. "But no one is immune to death."

"You should have left us alone," Kitty whispered. Snyder was most likely wearing a bullet proof vest. Kitty didn't want to kill him, only pierce his skin to allow the poison in, so she took aim at his left leg, and pulled the trigger.


	4. Bow Your Head and Say Grace

Grace Hendricks had traveled the length of the city, and yet she still found herself preferring the same exact location day after day. Her favorite spot was near the park by a wide metal fence overlooking the water. It was in this spot that she first met her then-fiancée, and it was all she could do to honor Harold's memory in her own special way. She'd set up her easel and brushes and let the ambiance of her soundings bring forth the inspiration needed to finish her work. It was virtually abandoned this early on Sunday mornings—just the way Grace liked it—so she gathered her art supplies, grabbed her fold up seat, wrapped a scarf around her neck, and headed out.

But on this particularly cold winter's day, Grace was rooted in place at the disturbing sight of a young man in a suit balancing precariously on the metal fence separating joggers from the frozen waters of the bay down below. The fall alone would be enough to kill someone, but on the off chance that a person survived the fall, it wouldn't take long for the icy waters to swallow them whole.

Panicked that the man was about to leap to his death, Grace's legs began moving on their own accord as she rushed forward to try and stop him. "Please," she gasped, dropping her seat and half her art supplies along the way, "Please, don't!"

"Calm down, woman," Kitty grumbled without turning around. "It's not my intention to jump. I just enjoy standing at the edge of things." She hopped around to face Grace and suddenly tottered back and forth, struggling to keep her balance and still keep hold of the large bottle of alcohol clutched tightly in her hand.

"Oh, God, please come down from there," Grace begged. It was only when she reached for her cellphone to call 911 that she realized she'd left it on the counter back home. Terrified, Grace approached Kitty with her hands outstretched in offering.

Kitty had yet to change her clothes or wash her face, so she still resembled a disheveled young man. The coldness of the air and the natural huskiness of her voice had combined to create a convincing male tone, especially when paired with her attire. Her suit was a mess of creases and streaks of dirt, as if she had fallen down one too many times. The redheaded woman was obviously distressed for Kitty's safety, and it confused Kitty, but her confusion slowly morphed into grief.

Grace was close enough to grab hold of Kitty's frozen hands, and the young woman's face finally scrunched up in tears. "Easy does it," Grace soothed as she helped her off the fence. "There we go. Is there someone I can call for you?"

"No." Kitty stumbled, knocked into Grace's side, and took her wallet. "No. There's no one left."

Grace desperately searched the surrounding area for a bystander to assist her, but they were the only two in the park at the moment.

"I'm sorry. I'm just really sad," Kitty answered miserably, wiping tears away from her bloodshot eyes. "I've lost my pigeon, and now I can't make payments."

Grace had absolutely no idea what the man was rambling about, but her success at guiding him away from the fence had given her a nervous elation in which she found herself rambling. "It'll be alright. There are plenty of pigeons in the park."

"No," Kitty stressed with wide eyes, "I need _my_ Pistachio. I don't know where he is, and now . . ." With a choked sob she sank to her knees despite Grace's failed attempt to keep her standing. "Also, I think I might be drunk."

"Yes, I think you are."

Abandoning the bottle of alcohol with a loud clank, Kitty looked out at the sidewalk and pointed. "I made you drop your stuff. Hold on. I'll get them." She walked fairly steady for as drunk as she was, but when she reached down to pick up a paintbrush, she ended up toppling face first onto the pavement.

Grace was no stranger to the endless weirdoes and roaming alcoholics that inhabited the city, but there was something especially sad about this spectacle. Maybe it was the fact that someone so young was already at the end of their rope, Grace wasn't entirely sure. All she knew was when Kitty returned with the brushes and tubes of paint and asked if she could sit for a while and watch her work, Grace felt pressured to accept.

Kitty took a seat on the pavement while Grace set up her easel. Unsure of exactly what to say, Grace asked, "You want to talk about why you were standing up on that railing?"

"I got fired from my job." Kitty slumped over like a vulture and looked out at the water. There were usually birds floating on the current, but it was too cold even for them anymore. "I'm not really sure what to do with my life anymore."

"I'm sorry to hear that." Grace knew firsthand what it felt like to worry about where your next paycheck came from, considering everything was digital now. It was only a matter of time before traditional artists like herself were a thing of the past. With a sad smile of sympathy, she continued to mix paint together to fill in the rich color of the pathway on the canvas. "Where did you work?"

It had been so long since another human initiated conversation, and an even longer time since she had spoken to a woman, that Kitty found herself lulled into a false sense of security. "I used to be a scientist."

Grace laughed at the incredibly vague answer. "Meaning?"

"My father wanted me to be a software engineer," Kitty answered bitterly, "but I wanted to be a chemist. My father won."

"You're an engineer?" Grace set her brush down and turned completely in her seat with a look of exasperation. "This city of full of jobs for people like you. Just go to a different company."

"It's not that simple."

Simple? What would this man know about simple? The suit he was wearing could easily help pay her rent, and this man hadn't even taken care of it, as if it meant nothing. As if he'd just as soon buy another one. It was hard enough to get by on her artwork without rich young people running around feeling sorry for themselves. "How?"

Kitty sighed in earnest. "My . . . previous employer made it virtually impossible for me to get a new job. Trust me. I've tried."

Grace decided to leave it alone.

For five solid hours Kitty sat as still as a statue while Grace dabbed at her most recent art piece. It was inspired by a small villa she spent time at while studying in Italy, and she hoped to bring in a substantial amount for it at the art galleria she attended twice a month. Glancing sidelong at Kitty, she broke the long silence between them. "What do you think?"

Kitty blinked out of her focused stupor. "What?"

"The painting," Grace specified. "Do you like it?"

"No."

For a split second, Grace was insulted. But when she realized Kitty had meant it wholeheartedly, and had answered without any sort of pretention, her curiosity initiated more questions. "What don't you like about it?"

"Have I made you angry?" Panicked that the woman was about to pack up and leave, Kitty said, "I meant to say I love it. Very nice use of color."

A smile broke out across Grace's lips as she found herself suddenly amused. "You don't have to like it." And she meant it. Normally, people tended to tell Grace her work was stunning, but it was Harold who was never afraid of offering honest criticism. She missed that.

"I didn't mean to say it wasn't good," said Kitty. "It's very pretty, but to be honest, that's all it is. Very, very pretty. It just . . . it doesn't make me feel anything."

"Alright. Fair enough." Grace finished outlining a string of vines hanging from the side of a building before asking, "What makes you feel something?"

"Anything by Francis Bacon. I like his subtlety."

"Francis Bacon . . . _subtle_?" Grace exclaimed. "Sorry," she apologized at the look on Kitty's face, "it's just . . . well, I can't think of an artist _less_ subtle. His work is all about creative chaos."

"Do you like his work?"

"Not my style, I suppose. Too . . . morbid. Unsettling. But I can appreciate the mystery of the human soul his portraits present. Actually," Grace paused to reflect. "Now that I think of it, I'm fairly fond of his self portrait."

Drawn to the fact that someone actually had an opinion about something she found interesting, Kitty sat up on her knees expectantly. "Me, too."

"He used to fix a sheet of glass in front of some of his work," Grace added. "So when you'd look at it, you'd also see just the slightest bit of your own reflection."

Kitty snapped her fingers. "I know what your painting is missing. Right there—" She reached out and pointed to a relatively large open area where Grace had depicted a dusty Tuscan road. "A decomposing cow carcass."

The thought repulsed Grace, but the absurdity of the suggestion made her burst into a sharp bark of laughter.

Kitty could tell she hadn't convinced her. "It would be the perfect touch. You've got all this lovely scenery and no realistic contrast."

Eager to change the subject, Grace asked, "Are you a fan of modern art in general?"

"No. Just Francis Bacon. I can't usually wrap my mind around art," Kitty admitted with a small shrug, "but his work speaks to me. He saw the world for what it really is."

"Oh?" Grace tilted her head at her own work.

"It's a melancholic existence full of morbidity and chaos and loneliness and ugliness and things that make us feel unsafe and uncomfortable. Dead things scattered awkwardly amongst the living." Kitty slowly turned her head to lock eyes with the artist, but she didn't look sad, surprisingly—only thoughtful. "If you think about it, he's right. We're all just walking slabs of meat."

"I hope you don't mean that." The entire conversation was going south fast, and Grace found herself feeling increasingly uncomfortable. Her legs itched with the need to flee the scene back to the warmth of her own home. People so rarely stopped to engage in conversation while she painted, and these last few hours with Kitty had left her exhausted. To her great relief, joggers seemed to come from out of nowhere, woken from their weekend sleep-ins at last. "Do you have a favorite painting of his?" Grace asked, struggling to keep the conversation.

"Painting."

"Yes," Grace repeated. "Do you have a favorite painting of his?"

"I just said my favorite painting is _Painting,"_ Kitty lied. She actually held an unhealthy obsession with Bacon's _Paralytic Child Walking on All Fours_ , but people tended to give her funny looks when she told them that. She learned from experience that _Painting_ was the safest answer. "Have you ever seen it?"

"Of course," Grace answered. "Haven't you? It's on display at the Museum of Modern Art." Judging from the comical expression on Kitty's face, this was news to her. "It's only a short walk from here."

Kitty shot up from the pavement next to Grace's stool and paced to the fence and back, seemingly in a whirlwind of thought. Suddenly her head shot up. "Do you want to go see it with me? I'll pay for your ticket."

"I, uh, no," Grace stuttered. "Thank you, but I've already seen it." She gave a terse smile and pointed at her painting. "I have to finish this by tomorrow. I'm on a deadline. But," she added hastily, "you go enjoy yourself."

"I think I will," Kitty agreed. "I'm feeling much better now. Thank you for letting me bother you while I sober up."

Grace laughed nervously as the strange young man turned and left without ever actually introducing himself. Even though their conversation had been bizarre, unpredictable, and somewhat tainted with the uncomfortable circumstance of their meeting, the park felt emptier than it did before it had filled with joggers and dog walkers and casual park visitors. It was only after Kitty had finally left that Grace realized just how lonely she'd become after Harold's death. It was normal to mourn, Grace knew, but at the rate she was going, she worried she would spend the rest of her life in mourning. Grace sighed at the sight of the bottle the man had left next to her seat, reached down to pick it up, and tossed it in the nearest trash.

It had been three days since Kitty last saw Pistachio, and this was the first glimmer of happiness she'd had since the moment she realized her beloved pigeon might be dead. Rejuvenated by Grace's news, Kitty was already halfway down the street when she felt a small square of pressure in her pocket. "Oops." In her haste to the museum, she had forgotten that she'd stolen Grace's wallet while she was helping her down from the fence. Now that Kitty had gotten to know the woman, it just seemed insulting to steal from her.

On her way back to the park, Kitty unrolled four hundred dollars from the money Finch had given her and tucked it into Grace's wallet as an apology.

* * *

"I don't know what it is you want from me." Finch continued to stare at Pistachio, but the bird only made himself at home next to the keyboard without so much as a coo.

Reese—who had just returned from his latest rescue mission—let himself into the library and handed Finch a steaming to-go cup from the café down the street. As soon as he spotted the dirty pigeon, his lips pressed together with displeasure. "Is there a reason you brought that thing here?"

"I didn't bring him here." Finch readjusted his glasses and gratefully accepted the tea. "He followed me here. I haven't been able to get rid of him for the past three days."

"I wonder what that means for our mystery woman," Reese thought aloud. "Have we received a new number?"

"Actually," Finch answered, already pushing up out of his seat, "we received one just this morning." After debriefing Reese on their latest case—an elderly man currently working as a bookseller—the two decided Finch would visit his store in Midtown Manhattan while Reese scoped out his apartment.

At the mention of leaving the library, Pistachio hopped up and began cooing.

Finch raised an eyebrow. "Is this your way of inviting yourself along?"

"We're not taking the bird, are we?"

"I'm not sure I have a say in the matter," said Finch. As if on cue, Pistachio spread his wings and flapped over to where Finch stood by a bookshelf, landing neatly on his shoulder.

* * *

The streets were relatively calm today. Finch decided not to question his good luck as he flew down the avenue towards the bookstore. If the streets kept this clear all the way there, he'd have plenty of time to make small talk with the owner before he closed his doors at the exceedingly early hour of 3pm. From what he could dig up online, Peter Hill had lived a long and incredibly uneventful life. He had purchased a bookstore some eight years ago—most likely as a retirement hobby—and as far as Finch could tell, there wasn't anyone who had cause to kill him.

Pistachio emerged from the inside of Finch's jacket and began tickling his ear. He reached up to grab the bird with an annoyed, "Stop that." Distracted, Finch saw the figure in the corner of his eye only a second before it darted into the street and hit the front of his car with a loud _thunk._

"Oh, God," Finch exclaimed in horror. Flinging the door open, Finch stumbled out onto the road and hurried to the figure lying distorted on the street. "Sir?" he yelled. "Sir, can you hear me?"

"Ow." When she realized who he was, Kitty rested her head back against the asphalt and groaned. "I knew you people were trying to kill me."

"Miss Krause?" Harold whispered furiously. He glanced around for any sign that someone had seen the accident, but the few spectators that bothered to stop could see Kitty was alive at least, so they moved on.

It was a painstaking effort, but somehow Kitty managed to sit up, her eyes slowly widening. " _Pistachio?_ " she breathed in disbelief.

Finch wasn't sure what to do with the woman once he realized who she was, but the situation only became more uncomfortable when Pistachio flew to his keeper and Kitty burst into uncontrollable tears.

"Miss Krause," Finch tried awkwardly, "we need to get out of the street."

She had been thoroughly convinced he was dead, so seeing Pistachio alive left Kitty in a state of emotional turmoil. It took Finch four tries before she even registered his presence. "I would love to get up," Kitty stated matter-of-factly, "but I think you cracked one of my ribs with your death machine."

A car pulled up behind Finch's, honked sporadically, and then squealed around and sped past them. The owner rolled down his window to shout obscenities, to which Kitty matched with a flick of her middle finger.

"I really wasn't joking." Kitty attempted to stand, winced, and sat back down. "My arm's not feeling too great, either."

After straining himself to help support Kitty into the car, Finch plopped back down in the drivers seat and tapped his earpiece. "Mr. Reese? Take a wild guess who I just ran into." Finch grimaced at the misfortunate wording. "Quite literally, actually."

"Don't worry about me, John," Kitty yelled. "This isn't the first time I've been hit by a car."

"I don't suspect it is," Finch retorted under his breath, "considering you didn't bother to look both ways before crossing the street."

"It's a stroke of luck you ran me over," Kitty said happily. "Saves me the trouble of having to find you myself. You'll be happy to hear I've decided to take you up on your offer to claim asylum."

Finch furrowed his brows in confusion. "What on earth are you talking about?"

"You people chase me all over the city, and _now_ you don't want to protect me?" Kitty felt no significant amount of pain in her arm, but something warm was sticking her suit to her skin. When she reached up to touch the wet patch, she felt a sharp protrusion where the soft roundness of her elbow should be, and she pulled away red fingers. Shifting around in her seat, Kitty shrugged out of the suit jacket and tried to get a good look at her elbow. "Does this look broken to you? I can't tell from this angle."

Finch glanced over, emitted a choked spluttering sound of terror, and slammed on the breaks for the second time that day.

* * *

Harold hated hospitals with a passion. He had never been very fond of them before _the accident_ , but afterwards they seemed to take on a whole new layer of unpleasantness. The only saving grace in this mess was the fact that he had kept the envelope of Kitty's fake identification in the glove box of his car, so checking Kitty into the hospital had gone smoothly.

Finch had waited patiently for over two hours for Kitty to be released from surgery, but the news only seemed to get worse after they wheeled her out into the lobby. Her body seemed to sag in the chair, but she smiled when she saw Finch and tried to wave with the wrong arm, her cast barely moving at all.

Finch smiled uncomfortably at the surgeon. "How long?"

"Possibly up to three or four hours. It differs from person to person. You need help getting him into the car? I can get a nurse out here."

"Money, money, money, money, moneymoneymoneymoney—" Kitty chanted ceaselessly, loosely rolling her head around at random.

"No, thank you," Finch answered. "I have a friend here to help me."

Reese was waiting out on the street when Finch rolled the wheelchair up to the sidewalk. "I thought you said her arm was broken?"

"It is," said Finch. "But she's still heavily sedated. Help me get her in the back."

Holding onto Kitty in the backseat of Reese's car had been easy the first time, back when she was knocked out on Russian sedatives. This time, she was coherent enough to speak and move with the skills of an uncoordinated drunk, and Finch was forced to re-buckle her seatbelt more than once.

She immediately stopped fighting once she contracted a case of the hiccups. "Harold," Kitty announced with significant panic, "I think I might have swallowed an explosive." _Hiccup._ "It's getting worse." _Hiccup._ "HELP!" she screamed and began slamming the palms of her hands against the window. "SAVE YOURSELVES!" _Hiccup._ "I'M ABOUT TO DETONATE!"

"Calm her down, Finch."

Reese sped towards the safehouse Finch insisted they bring her to for recuperation. It was nestled in the wooded hills of upstate New York, and he hoped the seclusion would allow Kitty a break from having to disguise herself every second of the day. The nearest neighbor was half a mile away, and far too elderly to make the long trek up the hill for visits, so even if Kitty were to travel outside without altering her appearance, she was far safer than she was in the city.

"It's time we figure out who this is," said Reese. "Mildred, what's your real name?"

She lifted her head only slightly from where she was resting against Finch's chest and slurred, "Bite me, pretty boy."

"Alright, new tactic." Reese pulled up into the long driveway of the safehouse and parked the car right in front of the house before turning around in his seat. " _You're_ going to question her."


	5. Lies Are Unbecoming of a Disney Princess

**I ship Fusco/Kitty's friendship so hard. BFF's for life.**

* * *

After helping Kitty into the house, Finch sat beside her on the downstairs couch and gently scrubbed away her fake facial hair with a warm washcloth. Reese kept a relative distance in accordance to Kitty's complaints that he made her feel threatened, and he opted instead to listen to her vulgar ramblings while leaned up against the kitchen table across the room. Pistachio sat beside Reese at the kitchen table, asleep.

"Vashe telo priyatno," Kitty slurred cheerfully from her resting spot pressed against Finch's chest. "Ya tebya khochu. Vy dolzhny snyat odezhdu."

Finch looked to Reese for a translation, but John—who currently had his eyes rolled up at the ceiling—offered no such help. Judging from the range of slight tweaks in his expression whenever Kitty spoke Russian, Finch had the irritated suspicion that John understood the language after all.

Kitty only seemed interested in sharing information with Finch, and only if he'd let her use him as a pillow. So far, she'd disclosed the name of her mother, the German town in which she grew up, and that her sister was, in fact, the real Mildred Krause having been, in Kitty's own words, "the best thing to ever happen to the Bolshoi Ballet Company." Unfortunately, Finch had yet to learn Kitty's real name. "I understand that you don't want to disclose your real name, Miss Krause, but I'm not sure what to call you now that I know Mildred is your sister."

"I'm not a Krause, Mr. Finch," she corrected. "And I already told you to call me Kitty."

"You're not a Krause?" he asked with surprise and removed her wandering hand from his leg.

"I'm not an anything."

When Kitty fell into a lapse of silence, Finch asked, "What happened to your fingers?"

"Oh," Kitty answered in a long, drawn out sigh, "that was an accident. Well, the first time was an accident. The last seven times weren't."

Finch's eyes widened. "What happened?"

"That's a long, boring story," Kitty complained and returned her hand to his leg. "Why don't you ask me something interesting?"

"Miss Kra—ah, I mean," Finch stumbled with a replacement, refusing to call her by the ridiculous nickname she provided, and settled for simply not addressing her by name at all. "We have it on good authority that your sister is in danger." Finch hoped to learn more about the people she was running from by trying to fill in the blanks of her story with guesses of his own.

A strange expression passed over Kitty's features, and she tilted her head up to look at Finch. "What exactly do you know about Mildred Krause?"

Finch noticed that without the ridiculous makeup speckled across her chin, jaw, and lips, there was no mistaking her feminine features, especially when she was this close to his face. "We need to know who you're hiding from so we can protect her."

"I figured you didn't know anything after all." Kitty smiled. "Would it suffice to say we're hiding from everyone?"

"If you tell us where she is," Finch offered, "we can bring her here to stay with you, if you'd like."

"We don't need your help, thanks." Kitty remembered her most recent run-in with Agent Snyder and smiled contently. "I've taken care of it."

Finch noticed the plural pronoun usage and concluded the real Mildred _was_ still alive. Harold had learned quite a bit through this little interrogation, even though he had been forced to sit still while Kitty—still apparently high on hospital drugs—made herself comfortable curled up beside him. "Taken care of what, exactly?"

"You two don't get it, do you?" Nowhere was safe for her anymore, she knew that. That's why Kitty had taken the opportunity to get the one person she had left in this world as far away from here as possible before it was too late. That's why Kitty had stayed in this wretched city. If the government wanted to find her, it was best if she stayed in one place. It did her sister no favors inciting a nation-wide investigation. Kitty tucked her feet up under her legs, ran a hand over his vest, and squinted up at Finch. "Doesn't matter where I go. They'll always find me."

Finch lifted her hand off his vest and held it to her side. "You seem convinced of that."

 _Poor fools,_ Kitty thought. _They cannot even begin to comprehend the monstrosity our governments developed._ In one fluid movement, Kitty shot up and placed both hands on either side of Finch's face, despite the awkward angle her stiff cast provided. "Could I ask a favor, dearest Finch?"

Out of habit, Reese removed the handgun in his suit at the sudden unexpected movement towards his friend. Once Finch gave him a small shake of his head, Reese slowly lowered the weapon and leaned back against the table, less relaxed than before.

Finch gently removed her hands from his face, sighing in defeat when she decided to lace her fingers through his instead. "What do you want?"

"I need a small loan of, say . . . " Kitty paused a moment, pretending to think, "$135,000."

"Thirty-five . . . what?"

"No," she corrected, "I said _one-hundred_ and thirty five thousand. Actually, if I'm being realistic, it's more like $150,000."

"You're asking me for one-hundred and fifty thousand dollars?"

"Oh, sorry," Kitty apologized in earnest. "Could I have $150,000, _please?_ "

"Why?"

"Because I'm eighty seven percent sure that if I never pay you back, you won't kill me."

Finch tried to think of all the things a young woman could possible need that much money for. Drugs? Gang affiliation? Loan shark debts? She had mentioned on more than one occasion that she had debts to pay. Although, it seemed an incredibly small loan in comparison to the reward the Russian government was offering to pay. It didn't make sense. "What do you need with that kind of money?"

"Personal finances. Oh, and I'd appreciate if they were in big bills." A thought struck her, and she finally released Finch's hand. "You could give me a job."

"Doing . . . what, exactly?"

"Whatever it is _he_ does," Kitty said with a wave of her unbroken arm in Reese's direction.

Finch released a small laugh and shook his head.

"No, you don't understand," she argued. "I've scaled these city walls thousands of times to get away from the police. I could be an asset to your team . . . whatever the hell it is you do."

"A gallant offer, indeed." Once again, he removed her hand away from his pants and held it firmly at her side. "But I'm afraid you won't be scaling walls anytime soon with a broken arm."

"It won't be broken forever!"

"Mr. Reese is more than capable of—"

"I'm capable," she snapped angrily.

Harold startled at the outburst.

"Look," said Kitty, "I need money. A lot of money. And I can't exactly fill out an application for the local McDonalds, so that doesn't leave me with a lot of options. What do you need me to do? I could, I don't know . . ." She flopped her head around to look at the expanse of the room, her eyes landing on a chandelier that hadn't been dusted in quite some time. "I'm very good with heights. I could clean your house for you. Looks to me like you haven't taken the time to clean it in a while. I . . ." Her wandering eyes landed back on him. "I could keep you company," she added with a lopsided smirk. "Must get lonely up here. I could fix that. I'm open to anything, really, as long as it pays well."

"We're done here," Finch announced, already pushing up off the couch. "I think it's best if we let you sleep off the rest of your medication."

"Wait, wait, I've decided to tell you a secret, Finch," Kitty relented in a low whisper, "but I need you to come closer. I don't want Mr. Kawasaki over there to hear." Hoping the young woman was finally about to divulge her name, Finch leaned towards her, trying extra hard not to pull away when Kitty's lips brushed against his ear. "I've enjoyed our little talk, but I just wanted to let you know," she whispered softly, "that the drugs wore off in the car, and I've been completely coherent since we rolled up to the house and began this game." Before her words had the chance to illicit a response from Finch, Kitty pressed her lips to his cheek.

* * *

Harold didn't need to glance up from his laptop to know the girl's eyes were still trained on him; however, the unease and embarrassment she usually stirred up inside him had soured within the past hour. Attempts at civility were quickly becoming a thing of the past. "Can you _please_ stop staring at me?" Finch asked with more than a little venom.

"Ya lyublyu smotret na tebya."

"I don't know what you're saying," Finch snapped irritably, "and I wish you would stop."

"Oh? Well, _I_ wish you hadn't run me over with your car."

"Yes, well, that tends to happen when pedestrians ignore the basic rules of the road."

"Give me something to do, Finch. I'm bored."

"I've already shown you where the bookcase is. Go read something."

"Yes, about that." Kitty plunked an old hardcover on the table. "What makes you think I'm interested in the fashions of the 1940's? Or 50's? Or 60's? I also found twelve detailed manuals on how to host the perfect dinner party and a teen girl's guide to dating. _Real_ riveting stuff you've got here, Finch."

Harold sighed and tried to continue typing. "The books came with the house. I haven't found the time to update the library yet."

"Want to play cards?"

"No."

"Want to play checkers?"

" _No._ "

"Want to play chess?"

"Miss Krause," Finch grumbled, "can you please just let me work?"

Reese watched the increasingly hostile exchanges with no shortage of amusement. Finch had spent the past hour conducting further research on their latest number, and Kitty had spent twenty minuets exploring the home, half an hour napping at Finch's feet, and the past ten minutes staring at him from across the table, unmoving, locked in some sort of trance.

"—know I've spent the past four months talking to a pigeon!" Kitty shouted, affronted. "I'm not exactly an eloquent conversationalist! I want to play chess, and I can't play with Pistachio. Trust me, I've tried. All he does is try to eat the pieces."

"John?" Finch sounded exhausted beyond reason. "Mr. Reese?"

"Yes, Finch?"

"Can you please entertain Miss Krause while I work?"

* * *

"Checkmate," Kitty complained loudly. "Dammit John, are you even trying?"

"Will you take pity on me if I say yes?" Reese enjoyed a good game of chess, but he also enjoyed plotting the game out, strategizing, ensuring his moves made the most impact. Playing chess with Kitty was like playing chess on acid. He couldn't make a single move without her already reaching for her next piece and plopping it down violently. "What are you doing?"

Kitty scooted up onto the couch, turned around, and bent backwards until the top of her head touched the floor. "There," she stated smugly. "Backwards _and_ upside down. Now maybe you'll last longer than four minutes. John, I sincerely hope this isn't indicative of your love life."

Reese was saved a nasty response by a knock on the door.

Kitty rolled off the couch and scurried across the floor on all fours, her cast clanking loudly against the hardwood flooring. Pushing chairs out of the way, she squeezed under the kitchen table and curled up at Finch's feet. "I thought you said this was a safehouse?" she hissed up at him.

Finch craned his neck to see who was at the door and let out a relieved, "Thank God."

Reese smirked down at the shorter, stockier man standing out on the front porch. "Hello, Lionel. You look nice. Start a new diet plan?"

"Yeah, yeah, cut the crap. Where's this kid you need me to babysit?"

"Good to see you, detective." Finch rushed across the room as quick as his stiff joints would allow. "Mr. Reese and I have a few errands to run today, so we are most appreciative of your help. Did you bring the groceries I requested?"

"Yeah." Fusco shook a thumb at his car. "They're in the trunk. So how long is this gonna take?"

"A few hours, at the most," Finch assured him with no actual guarantee of his estimation. "Now, ah, the girl we're currently housing is . . . well, honestly, she's a bit of a handful, but if you give her chocolate milk, she should cooperate."

Fusco looked around the expanse of the impressive home with a nod of approval. "Is that why you had me pick up six gallons?"

"Yes. That should tie you over until we return." Finch led the way back to the kitchen, speaking softly. "Now, she deflects any and all questions by means of shock and awe, so if you ask her something and she puts her hands on you . . . and she probably will . . . don't get any ideas."

"Hey, wait a minute." Fusco stopped halfway through the dining room with a finger pointed at Finch. "You never mentioned this girl was a fighter."

"No," Finch clarified uneasily, "I meant a different sort of hands on. Between you and me, detective, frankly I find her manners completely abhorrent—" Finch's sentence was cut short by the realization that Kitty was sitting in his seat. Her expression only lasted for the briefest of moments, but Finch caught it just before she replaced it with a cheerful smile.

Kitty had been staring, ashen with what looked like fear, at his laptop screen.

"Is something wrong?" Finch questioned on his way back to his laptop. He inspected the screen, but the girl hadn't touched it. A picture of Peter Hill still sat on one side of the screen and the details of his store on the other.

"No," Kitty said quickly, and far too cheerfully. Skirting around Finch, she walked up to Fusco and leaned in close to his face. "Who's this?"

"Detective Fusco," Lionel answered. "Nice to meet you. Now, do you mind backing up?"

"I don't like him, Finch. You can't leave me here with him." Kitty strode purposefully over to where Finch was packing his equipment into a computer bag and pounded her fist on the table. "He's rude and smells of overcooked pasta."

"Hey," Fusco complained. "At least I'm not the one who needs a babysitter."

"I'll have you know I'm legal in your country!"

"Look," Finch began warily, "John and I have to leave for a little while, and I've asked my friend to keep you company until we return."

"Where are you going?"

"You asked me earlier what we do, Miss Krause. We help people."

"The man on your laptop," she asked softly. "Are you going to go help him?"

Finch paused with his hands still gripping the zipper on his laptop bag. "Do you know Mr. Hill?"

"Mr. Who?"

"Peter Hill. The man whose picture was on my screen. The picture you seemed . . . interested in."

"Oh," Kitty exclaimed with another cheerful smile. "No. I thought I did, for a second, but you see a lot of people in this city."

"You do, indeed," Finch agreed. He continued to watch Kitty's mannerisms, which seemed jittery now, as she circled around Fusco. "Miss Krause, this is Detective Lionel Fusco. Detective Fusco, Miss Krause."

Kitty finished circling him and smiled. "Finch refuses to call me Kitty. It's nice to meet you, Fungus."

"It's Fusco."

Harold finished packing his belongs and slung the bag over his shoulder. " _Kitty_!" he chastised sharply. "Give Detective Fusco his belongings back. _Now_."

"See?" she replied happily and held up a wallet. "That really wasn't so hard, now was it, Finch? It's so nice to hear you say my name."

"Hey," Fusco interjected and snatched the wallet out of Kitty's outstretched hand, "that's my wallet!"

"Thus, I'm giving it back to you." Kitty sighed in exasperation. "I have the terrible feeling that you're not a very good chess player."

"Return his cellphone as well," Finch ordered sternly. "And his watch."

Kitty complied with a roll of her eyes.

" _And_ the money you took out of his wallet."

"Aw, come on, Finch," Kitty wined.

" _Now_."

"What the hell?" Fusco's eyes widened as the girl piled all of his stolen belongings in his hand.

Finch leaned in close on his way to the front door. "I suggest you keep a closer eye on your things, detective."

"Don't worry about us, Finch." Kitty slung her unbroken arm over Fusco's shoulder. "I'll take real good care of your boy Fungus."

"It's Fusco," Lionel snapped. "Fus-co." Pistachio—who had woken from all the commotion—flew across the room and pooped on Fusco before jumping onto Kitty's shoulder. "Yeah," Fusco mumbled, "that's just peachy."

* * *

"Do you have any scars?"

Fusco looked up from the crossword puzzle he was working on. "What?"

"I've got this really cool scar on my ribs. It kind of looks like a bird in flight." Kitty began to pull her shirt up. "Wanna see it?"

Finch had tried to warn him about the girl, but it was a slow realization for Lionel that there was something very wrong with her. Fusco's face scrunched. "No. Put your shirt down."

"I've been hit by a car four times in my life. Only one time was an accident, and that was Finch. Have you ever been hit by a car?"

"Not that I can remember."

"I can dislocate my shoulder. Wanna see?"

"Listen, kid, I just want to sit here and finish my paper until your boy Mr. Glasses comes back. Is that okay with you?"

"Do you find me attractive, detective?"

Fusco rubbed at his eyes. "This is gonna be a long few hours, isn't it?"

"Do you think Finch finds me attractive?"

"Here," Fusco pushed out of his seat, retrieved a glass from the cupboards, and poured the girl some chocolate milk. "Now, will you leave me alone?"

"You want to know why I'm in hiding?" Kitty graciously accepted the drink, took a long sip, and set it down in front of her. "My mother sold me to the Russian government when I was twelve."

Fusco's pen stopped moving halfway through the formation of an _E._ He looked up, worried that he wouldn't be able to think of the right thing to say. Instead of being confronted by a sniveling mess, Fusco was worried to find an untroubled expression on Kitty's face. "Your mother . . . sold you?"

"Yes." Kitty took another drink of milk and wiped residue from her lip. "I didn't find out until years later, but she gave me to the Russians in exchange for a substantial lump sum."

"That's rough, kid."

"She used some of it to buy a new car, in which she ran me over with when I came back to visit in the summer. I almost died. That's when I got a screw in my hip." Kitty sat up excitedly. "Want to see the scar? It's _massive!_ "

"Would you excuse me for a second?" Fusco retreated to the far side of the house before pulling out his cellphone and dialing Finch's number. "Hey," he said gruffly when Finch answered, "your girl's got serious problems. I don't feel comfortable around her."

"She has that effect on people, detective."

"Yeah, well, you failed to mention that she's completely psychotic."

"I'm sure you can take care of yourself. Just give her chocolate milk like I said. I'm sorry, but I have to go. Our Mutual Friend is on the other line."

* * *

Finch was thankful to be back in the comfort of the library. It was a relief to not only once again have the power of the Machine at his fingertips, but it was also a great relief to be miles away from Kitty's persistent violations of personal space.

Finch received another incoming call and answered with a worried, "Hello, again, Detective. Is there something wrong?"

"Fiiiiiiiiiiiiinch!"

All of the pleasant relief he had presently been basking in crumbled to make way for a confusing barrage of emotions. "Kitty," Finch stated evenly, "why are you calling this number?"

"Did you know Fusco has you listed in his contacts as Mr. Glasses? I'm fairly certain Mr. Good News is Reese."

Finch took a deep breath through his nose and exhaled. "You haven't answered my question."

"Can you buy me an Xbox on your way back here? Oh, and a Kinect? Oh, and Dance Central? I've figured out how to keep myself busy."

"If I agree to make these purchases, will you promise to stop calling me and return Fusco's cell to him?"

"Yes."

"Do not disappoint me." Finch disconnected the call and made one of his own. "I did some more digging, Mr. Reese. Turns out our friend's story is true. It also turns out that she's a twin. Identical, from the looks of it." Finch clicked through documents that he'd for some reason been unable to access the last time he did research. They all seemed to have been crudely scanned on the world's worst fax machine. There were a few newspaper articles detailing Mildred's career, but unfortunately—aside from the birth documentation—all of the information had been superficial at best. "Mildred Krause, single child, born in Wetzlar Germany to an Annett Krause . . . father unlisted. Attended primary school in her village, but she left at the age of fifteen to pursue a dancing career with the Bolshoi Ballet Company in Russia. Impressive. Did you know they have a cut-throat acceptance rate of—"

"You mean to tell me," Reese interrupted, "that the Russian government put out a manhunt for a ballerina?"

"No, I don't think they did," Finch answered. "I still don't believe Kitty and Mildred are the same person, so that means someone must have tempered with their birth documents. I can't find any information on Mildred's siblings. Records indicate Mildred's named changed to . . . Fields." He clicked through some marriage records and enlarged the document he was looking for. "Married a historian named Thomas Fields just last year. It seems they were married here, in New York. Must have been to secure her citizenship. The two own a home on . . . oh no."

"What?" Reese kept a steady eye on Mr. Hill as he disappeared through the door of his bookstore. "Am I going to have to go put them somewhere safe?"

"I'm afraid that's not possible, Mr. Reese," Harold commented sadly as he read through the file. "Mr. and Mrs. Fields died in a home fire four months ago."

"Did the police ever find their bodies?"

Finch searched the morgue files and breathed a small sigh of relief. "No. A partial skeleton of Mildred's mother was unearthed after the fire, but Mr. and Mrs. Fields were never found. You think maybe our Mildred got there first and saved the real Mildred?"

"Finch . . . did you just call her 'our' Mildred?"

"You have a better name for her?"

"I've got a few," Reese grumbled. "If she did manage to get them both out, that might be why she's having an identity crisis. Trying to keep all eyes on her to ensure her sister's safety must be tiring."

"What I can't seem to understand is . . . why did she give me this information?" Finch felt his face grow warm with embarrassment at the memory. "It seems to have slipped my mind, but I forgot to tell you what she whispered in my ear when I was questioning her. Apparently, the drugs had worn off hours beforehand, and she had been of sound mind for the whole thing."

"She wanted us to know about her sister. You think she wants us to find her?"

"I don't know." Finch stared at the photo of Mildred Krause—the same photo that had been presented to Detective Carter. "I'm not entirely sure she knows either."

* * *

Fusco was one of the easiest people to pickpocket Kitty had ever come in contact with. First she had taken his car keys, then the laptop from out of his car, and then his cell phone to make a call to Finch.

If Harold turned out to be who she thought he was, there might be a chance he could be her contingency. But until she was thoroughly convinced, she would only allow him a piece of the puzzle. Kitty keyed in the last of the code onto Lionel's stolen laptop. "That's enough information for now, boys. Let's not be greedy."

* * *

"I did it, Mr. Reese," Finch announced excitedly. "I hacked into the Russian government databases. Incredibly efficient coding . . . but there's nothing I can't—" All of the information on Finch's monitor fizzled and glitched for a few seconds, and then the screen went dark. Letter by letter, line by line, bright green script typed up on the screen and stood out against the black.

HELLO AMERICANS

NICE TO MEET YOU

HOW'S YOUR DAY GOING?

IT'S ABOUT TO GET WORSE

CONGRATULATIONS ON CRACKING THE CODE

GIVE YOURSELF A NICE PAT ON THE BACK

UNFORTUNATELY, YOU WON'T FIND WHAT YOU'RE LOOKING FOR

THERE'S NOTHING TO SEE HERE

I MADE SURE OF THAT

MIND YOUR OWN BUSINESS BEFORE IT GETS YOU INTO TROUBLE

DIDN'T YOU KNOW CURIOSITY ONLY SOMETIMES KILLED THE CAT?

THANKS FOR YOUR TIME

I HOPE YOU ALL HAVE A GHASTLY DAY RESULTING IN FATALITY

With one final glitch, the green words disappeared, only to be replaced by varying pictures of kittens in rapid-fire succession. They piled upon one another until the screen was filled with thousands of them in mere seconds.

"Finch, find anything else? What happened?"

"I have a guess as to what Kitty does for a living." Harold scrambled for the power source and pulled the plug before the malware could cause any more damage. "And it's not ballet."

* * *

It was too quiet for Fusco's liking. He glanced up from his puzzle and searched for the girl, but she had left the kitchen without a sound. There was no telling how long she had been missing. With a winded sigh, Fusco began to search the house, but Kitty did not respond. "Dammit," he muttered under his breath and reached for his cell, only to discover she had, once again, pilfered it off him.

Hairs stood up on the back of his neck at the sound of someone walking on the roof. Fusco hurried out into the cold and shielded his eyes from the sun's bright winter glare. His mouth slowly fell open when he found what he was looking for. "Holy Mother Teresa. _What are you doing, kid?!"_

"Ahoy, Detective!" Kitty yelled from atop the highest point of the roof. "I'm sorry about your laptop, but it's been contaminated. I'll ask Finch to buy you a new one, I promise!"

"My laptop?" Fusco shouted back in confusion, and then he noticed it in her hand. "Aw, jeez."

Kitty reeled back her good arm and flung the laptop from the rooftop with all her might.

* * *

"I had a talk with Mr. Hill," Reese chimed in when he returned to the library. "He tried his best to hide it, but his German accent was still detectable. He grew defensive when I asked where he was from. Accidentally knocked over a stack of books at his desk on my way out. Found something interesting among them. I think you should see it."

Finch accepted the thin, flimsy pamphlet of poetry and ran a hand over the cover. " _The Life and Works of Richard Lovelace_." He glanced up to the stony-faced man in question. "Is there a reason you stole this?"

"Check the inscription."

Finch flipped open the worn first page. Under the title was:

 ** _Für: Dr. Otto Boer_**

 ** _Von: Natasha Krause_**

 ** _Danke für deine Freundschaft._**

"It says, _Thank you for your friendship_." Reese translated.

"Natasha Krause," Finch read. "It's too much of a coincidence."

"Looks like we just found our mystery woman."

"The question remains," Finch limped back to his seat and began typing this information into his laptop. "Is our Mr. Hill actually this Dr. Boer, and if so, what can he tell us about Miss Krause that she refuses to tell us herself?"

John followed behind him with a quizzical twitch of his eyebrows. "Why aren't you using your desktop computer?"

"Have a seat, Mr. Reese." Finch waved to a wooden chair discarded in the corner of the room. "We have much to discuss."


	6. Riddle Me This

_2011, New York City_

"I apologize for the dramatics, Mr. Boer," said Finch, "but I'm afraid we can't have you compromising the safety of the home we're taking you to."

Dr. Boer sat complacently blindfolded in the back seat of the car as Reese sped all three of them back to the safehouse. "You people said I was free to go," he complained in his gruff baritone accent. "You said the questioning was finished."

Finch sat beside him in the backseat, watching as the sky darkened with angry grey clouds. Snow was already beginning to coat the roads in fluff, and Harold began to worry about the speed in which Reese was coasting. "We don't work for the government, Mr. Boer."

"Then how do you know my name?"

"We believe your life is in danger," Finch continued. "You've been followed by a group of Russians for the past few days, so we're taking you to a—"

"You didn't answer my question."

"What I find so strange," Harold answered after a pause, "is that you have virtually no ties to anything American. For someone who claims to have been raised in New York, there wasn't much of a digital trail I could follow. No birth certificate, no school records, no college records . . . the only major purchase you've ever made in your entire life was the bookstore you currently run."

"I was born before the digital age. What is your point?"

Reese decided to step in. "We know your friend, Natasha Krause." He looked in the rearview mirror to study the elderly man's reaction, but Dr. Boer showed no signs of recognition. "She's staying with us at the house we're taking you to. What can you tell us about her?"

"I don't know a Natasha Krause," Dr. Boer answered slowly. "Who are you people? Why are you doing this?"

"We know her sister Mildred was killed in a fire four months ago. You know anything about that?"

Except for a slight flair of his nostrils, Dr. Boer remained motionless. "I've been through all this before. I've already told you everything I know."

"Mr. Boer," Finch stepped in, "we are not affiliated with the government. Whatever deal you made with Washington has no attachment to us. Please . . . we just need to know how dangerous she is."

Dr. Boer began to chuckle and shake his head. "You're the CIA, aren't you? You people are nothing but a bunch of liars. If you're going to kill me, at least have the decency to tell me upfront. Stop all this nonsense about a safehouse."

Against Reese's wishes, Finch reached out and tugged off the blindfold. "We are not the CIA. We're here to help you, and, hopefully, help Natasha as well. But we can't help either of you unless you cooperate and tell us everything you told the CIA."

Dr. Boer blinked in the sunset's dying light and focused his eyes on Finch. He didn't recognize the man, and he wasn't dressed in the same fashion as the agents who came knocking on his door all those years ago. Studying Reese next, Dr. Boer frowned. "You were in my store. You're the man who stole my book. Took it off my desk. That's how you know Natasha's name. You're both a pair of artful liars, but I'd much prefer you shot me now and get it over with."

Finch's eyes bore into Dr. Boer's with a glimmer of triumph. "So you admit an acquaintance with Natasha Krause?"

Dr. Boer was old and irritated. He had undergone hours of questioning from the Americans when he was first granted asylum to their country nearly eight years ago, and he had no intention of indulging these men in their quest for answers he simply couldn't provide. Truthfully, all he wished for at the moment was some peace and quiet so he could take a nap. "You want to know what I told the CIA? Alright. But only if you'll let me sleep in peace for the rest of this insufferable journey." Dr. Boer shifted in his seat. "I have not seen Natasha Krause for nearly fourteen years. I don't know where she is, or where she's been, or what she's done, or what she's planning to do. Satisfied?" With a final huff, Dr. Boer relaxed against the seat, leaned his head against the car window, and promptly fell asleep.

* * *

 _Duchess County, New York_

"That can't be good." Reese leaned down and picked up one of the many pieces of what looked to have, at one point in time, been a laptop that was spread all across the frosted driveway. Charred black patches of concrete circled around the remains of the plastic and metal, and the ash left a dark residue on Reese's fingers. After breaking it into hundreds of pieces, someone had set the remains of the laptop on fire.

From behind the closed front door, Fusco was yelling bloody murder. " _COME DOWN FROM THERE, YOU COWARD!_ "

Finch started towards the door, but Reese held out a hand to stop him. "Get our friend out of the car," Reese ordered softly. "Escort him inside. I'll deal with the girl."

Detective Fusco had spent the last few hours trying very hard not to use his gun to solve his problems. Not only had the girl destroyed his laptop—in which he conducted his official NYPD business—but she had destroyed both his personal and company work cells as well. He was having a hard enough time as it was keeping his head down to escape the nosy eyes of Carter and other officers who suspected him of having ties to dirty cop dealings. And now Reese and Finch had completely ruined his weekend by calling him up and forcing him to watch over a raving lunatic with a broken arm.

When Reese entered the house, he found Fusco desperately swatting the air with a broom, trying his best to knock Kitty off her roost high up on the chain of the dinning room chandelier.

"Help, John!" Kitty shouted. "I'm being held hostage in my own home!"

Hearing Reese's name, Fusco spun around and advanced on him with a furious expression. "You people owe me a new laptop. _And_ a new phone! Next time, call someone else to watch over Mowgli."

"Sure thing, Lionel," Reese agreed in a low, hushed tone, "but first I need to borrow your handcuffs."

Lionel surrendered them with a low growl of annoyance. "Can I go now? I'd like to get home before the snow completely closes down the roads." Reese gave a curt nod, and Lionel disappeared out the door.

Reese walked under the chandelier and peered up. "Come down from there."

"I'd love to," Kitty answered, "but I'm afraid it was a lot easier to get up here than it is to get down. Are you offering to help?"

Reese caught her just as easily as he had the first time they met, but this time he didn't immediately set her down.

"You're very good at this," Kitty praised and reached up to stroke the side of his head. "Is that a little gray I see? Mmm. You know, you really are starting to grow on me—hey . . . what are you doing? Hey, hey, hey, stop! _Agh!_ "

Twisting her good arm behind her back, Reese quickly handcuffed her wrist to her ankle before placing her on her stomach.

"I was just kidding about the gray! I'm sure you're a great guy," Kitty huffed indignantly, "but I'm not interested in you, Reese. Thanks, but no thanks."

"I'm glad to hear it," Reese replied.

Finch helped Dr. Boer to the couch. The much older, much slower man stood almost a foot taller than Finch, but his spine had stooped with age and left him with a small hunch. Dr. Boer shuffled to the offered seat and relaxed against the cushions until he noticed the commotion in front of him.

Finch frowned disapprovingly at the sight of Kitty rolling around on the floor in handcuffs. "Was that really necessary, Mr. Reese?"

"Who do you trust more, Finch?" Reese answered in his usual calm tone. "The woman who constructed a bomb out of overpriced shoes, or the man too old to walk himself into the house?"

Kitty stopped thrashing and lay contorted on the rug, head twisted at an odd angle to get a look at Dr. Boer. The two had not yet spoken a word to one another, but each had frozen in shock at the reunion.

Even though she was years older, and her hair was cut shorter than he had ever seen it before, Dr. Boer knew deep down who she was. "Natasha?" he asked, and her eyes widened ever so slightly. "Natasha," he repeated with a sigh, "what sort of trouble have you gotten yourself into?"

When she finally spoke, her voice was nothing more than a whisper. "Ich dachte du wärst tot." Her face slowly crumpled, and she began to weep.

* * *

The snowfall continued on into the early morning, coating everything in a crystalline blanket of white. Reese held fast to Dr. Boer's arm to ensure the old man didn't slip and fall as they took a stroll around the property. Finch had expressed worry at the health risks, but Dr. Boer had declared himself satisfied with his long life and insisted Reese take him for a walk.

"Why did you tell us you didn't know Natasha?"

Dr. Boer crunched through the snow step by careful step. "I suppose it's because I don't. Not anymore."

Reese helped steady the man as they passed over a particularly thick patch of snow. "What can you tell me about her?"

"Natasha was a very large intellect raised in a very small village that could never agree on what to do with her. She understood things they could not, things my previous students at university were only beginning to grasp, but she was also . . . troubled. She had behavioral problems that pushed our villagers away from her."

Reese looked back towards the house and worried if leaving her—asleep or not—alone with Finch was dangerous to more than just Finch's pride. "What kind of behavioral problems?"

"There were a few altercations at her primary school. Got into a violent fight once with a boy who called her sister a tart." Dr. Boer huffed a laugh at the memory. "You'll never find a more fiercely loyal individual, I guarantee it."

"I've read up on Mildred's dancing career. I'm assuming Mildred and Natasha were different?"

"As different as two people can be. People seem to think identical twins are not their own entities. Mildred loved people, but if there's one thing I remember most of all, it's that humans bore Natasha." The two rounded the path and stopped for a moment to appreciate the span of naked trees frosted over in the semi-dark of dawn. "Natasha is one of the brightest, most insecure individuals I have ever known. She's in constant need of validation and praise. Or, at least she was before her father took her away."

"Her father?" Reese remembered the lack of information on Mildred's birth certificate and frowned. "Do you happen to know his name?"

"I never met him, but Natasha spoke of him often. Told me he ran some sort of special gifted school in Russia, and he wanted to recruit her. If she had given me a name, I've forgotten it by now."

"When I found her," Reese explained, "she was running away from the Russians. Their government put out a search for her and have offered a substantial reward for her safe return."

Dr. Boer absorbed this information as he drank in more of the scenery. "I used to teach Engineering and Micro Systems Technology at the Mittelhessen University of Applied Sciences before retirement began to bore me. When Natasha was a small child, she would visit and listen to my old lectures. Said her school failed to provide her with a challenge. I believe she enjoyed my company because I never treated her like a child. If she asked a question, I would explain it the same way I would to any of my students at the university. Fourteen years ago, she was nothing more than a very lonely child grasping for some semblance of self-worth. The trouble is, Mr. Reese," Dr. Boer stately flatly, "fourteen years is a very long time. And the truth is . . . I don't know what she's become."

* * *

Kitty had not yet woken from her spot at the foot of the couch. Harold had shown Kitty the upstairs room he'd furnished for her, but Dr. Boer was unable to climb the stairs and was offered the couch for the night. Kitty opted to curl up on a blanket on the floor beside the couch, refusing to leave his side, and she still lay curled up in a deep slumber.

Finch took a seat on the couch to rest his back and watch the snowfall from out the large front windows. He always admired this house, and the longer he studied its elegant architecture, the more he wished he could live here permanently. It was built in the early 1900's and came fully furnished courtesy of the elderly couple he purchased it from. Although the heating and air conditioning needed some work, it was evident that the previous owners took pride in their home, and Finch was glad someone was finally putting it to use.

Harold had listened in on Kitty's disturbing conversations with Fusco through the Detective's bugged cellphone, up until Kitty destroyed it. Finch hadn't completely decided whether or not he believed her stories. Being run over by a car was one thing, but being intentionally run over and sold to the government by your own mother was quite another altogether. Harold believed most of Kitty's stories to be an attention-seeking ploy, like most of the things she did. On the one hand, it would help explain her erratic behavior and distrust of all but a select few people, but it still didn't sit well with Finch. There had to be—and there likely was, he believed—more to the story.

Kitty emitted a sound like she was in pain, and her brow creased with tension. Finch looked down, startled at the noise, but the girl still seemed to be asleep. She was dressed in a pair of long-sleeved pajamas that had ridden up in the night and exposed her right leg above the knee. Finch watched the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest to confirm she had not awoken, but before he could look away, he noticed the dark ink of a tattoo peeking out from under the edge of the pajama on her exposed thigh. It looked to be some sort of message in Russian, though Finch could not read it.

Careful to ensure his cellphone was on silent mode, Finch leaned forward to snap a picture in the hopes Reese would be able to translate it. Unfortunately, the message was partially covered by her pajamas. Finch glanced nervously at the window, unsure why he was even thinking about doing this. Once he confirmed Reese and Dr. Boer were still on their walk, he very carefully pushed the fabric further up her thigh, but the camera was soon forgotten. Above the message in Russian was a tattoo in what looked to be Chinese, followed higher up by a message in Korean, followed even further up by a tattoo in what looked to be Swedish.

By this point, Finch had pushed the fabric nearly all the way up her leg, and there were still more tattoos. Shamed he had allowed his curiosity to hijack his consideration for her personal privacy, he quickly pulled the fabric back down to cover her, but not before remembering to take a picture of the Russian message closest to her knee. Kitty mumbled something and nestled further into the blanket.

At first Harold relaxed against the cushions and attempted to focus his attention back on the snow frosting the windows, but Kitty's facial twitches intensified, and he took pity on her. He noted that Kitty's eyes were still ringed with a purplish red. She still wasn't eating.

If Mildred's birth certificate were to be believed, Natasha would turn twenty-two in three months. Finch thought back on the year he turned twenty-two. It had involved a lot of balloons, expensive alcohol, and a collection of college girls, no thanks to Nathan's persistence. Life seemed so simple back then, before the Machine, before the accident.

Finch's hand hovered over her head as he contemplated the possible contact. Kitty seemed to be lost in some terrible memory, and it disturbed him. When she inhaled sharply and frowned deeply, hands clutching desperately to the blanket beneath her, Finch decided at last to place a hand on the top of her head and smooth out her hair. He was pleased when her knitted brow softened, and the tension in her body relaxed.

Reese burst in through the front door, bringing in a whirlwind of snowflakes and chill morning air. Finch promptly retracted his hand and sat rigid against the couch cushions. Kitty shot up screaming, whipping her head around the room in search of the disturbance.

"I need help, Finch," Reese panted as he half carried, half dragged Dr. Boer's limp body into the house. "He's having a stroke."

Kitty shot up from the floor. "What are you doing? You need to put him in the car. He needs a hospital."

"The roads are too dangerous," Finch started, but Reese was already heading to the car.

* * *

Reese thanked the nurse for the news and headed for the hospital exit. "Finch?"

Finch and Kitty had remained at the safehouse while Reese drove Dr. Boer to the hospital. Finch had spent the time sitting quietly on the couch, while Kitty paced every inch of the downstairs in nervous anticipation. "Yes, Mr. Reese?" Finch replied into the Bluetooth. "I'm here."

Kitty shot across the room and leaned up against Harold's side, eyes wide and frightened.

"Dr. Boer didn't make it," said Reese. "It was a brain aneurysm. There was nothing they could do."

Finch blinked, afraid to turn his head for fear of facing Kitty's reaction at the news. They had saved Dr. Boer from the Russians, only to have him die a day later from natural causes. It all seemed like a cruel practical joke.

"What happened, Harold?" she asked impatiently. "Is he okay?" Finch wasn't even offered the opportunity to say her name before she cut him off. "He's dead, isn't he?"

"Natasha," Finch started.

"Don't say you're sorry," she snapped.

The two sat in silence, listening to the sound of a shutter knock against a window in the kitchen. A harsh wind was picking up, blowing snow up and down in a blinding maze.

"It was an aneurysm," Finch explained. "There was nothing anyone could do."

Without warning, Kitty pushed up off the couch and walked silently up to the coat closet near the front door. She pulled out a thick winter parka, rain boots, and a wool hat.

Sensing what she was about to do, Harold advanced on her with an outstretched hand. "Where are you going?"

"I have only ever had two friends in my entire life," Natasha explained as she tugged on the wool hat, "and one of them just died. I'd like to be alone for awhile."

"So you're going to go wandering out in a snowstorm? At least wait until John gets back. It's not safe to go out in this weather."

"I'll be seeing you, Harold." Kitty's smile lacked her usual cheer as she held up her broken arm. "Thanks for the cast. _Come on, Pistachio!_ " Kitty caught him mid-flight and tucked him away in the parka.

Harold had no way to follow her. He wouldn't last long on foot, and Reese had rushed away in the only car they had brought to the house. Besides, he didn't have much faith in his ability to drive in this much snow. It never seemed to snow this much in the city.

Feeling helpless and guilty for not being able to convince her to stay, Finch watched as Kitty passed over the ridge of the hillside and disappeared into a wall of swirling white.

* * *

Reese crossed his arms. "You just let her walk out of the house?"

"What would you have suggested I do?" Finch returned to his seat on the couch and stared at the wrinkled blanket on the floor. "Handcuff her to the table? At this point, I wouldn't be opposed to the idea, but I don't know where you put them."

"So, now what do we do?"

"What we always do, Mr. Reese." Finch opened his laptop and clicked away at the keys. "We wait for a new number. Are the roads drivable? I'd prefer to go back to the library. Oh . . . actually, I have something I need you to translate." Finch remembered about the tattoo and reached for his phone. His eyebrows raised in shock when he found it. "Miss Krause must truly be deep in mourning. She didn't even attempt to steal my phone. Oh, look. I still have my wallet, too."

"Does she know you took this?" Reese asked when Finch showed him the picture. "That's pretty high on her leg, Finch."

"Can you please just tell me what it says?"

"What makes you think I speak Russian?"

Harold refused to play along and instead stared humorlessly at Reese until he finally decided to translate.

"It says, _Property of the Scientific Research Institute, Russian Ministry of Defense. Not for sale._ "

"Not for sale," Finch echoed. The implications of the message made Harold's head spin. He wondered if maybe her stories had been true after all. "John . . . I fear we may be dealing with an incredibly unstable authority."

Reese pushed back a curtain and watched as more snow blew about in the breeze. "Think your incredibly unstable authority will last through this storm?"

"She's Russian, Mr. Reese." Finch walked up beside him at the window as a new flurry began filling in Kitty's footprints. "A little snow won't stop her." A _ping_ sounded from Finch's laptop, and he hurried over to see what it was. "Mr. Reese, I'm afraid we have a problem." Harold spun the laptop around and revealed a photograph of Detective Joss Carter. "We just received our new number."

* * *

 _2011, Brooklyn, New York_

As soon as Kitty walked through the door, the computer monitor whirred to life and script appeared on the screen in angry block letters.

 _YOU HAVE NOT CHECKED IN FOR SIX DAYS_

 _I WAS WORRIED_

"I know," Kitty apologized softly. "I'm sorry, but I couldn't compromise your position by contacting you."

 _I WISH YOU WOULD WEAR YOUR EARPIECE_

"I don't need it anymore. All threats have been neutralized."

 _NEGATIVE_

 _MORE THREATS DETECTED SINCE YOUR DEPARTURE_

The computer's webcam noted her posture, the tone of her voice, and a gleam from an un-wiped tear on her cheek and crackled while it processed a response.

 _WHY ARE YOU SAD?_

"I lost a friend yesterday." Kitty sniffed and wiped at her chafed nose. "Natural causes. Couldn't be helped."

 _I AM SORRY FOR YOUR LOSS_

 _WOULD YOU LIKE TO PLAY CHESS TO TAKE YOUR MIND OFF IT?_

"Not right now."

 _WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN HIDING?_

Kitty pulled off the wool hat and ran a hand through her shortened hair. "With the friends I told you about."

 _YOU HAVE ALTERED YOUR APPEARANCE_

"It's just a haircut. It'll grow back." Kitty shimmied out of her winter coat and hung it on the coatrack by the door.

 _YOU HAVE BROKEN YOUR ARM_

 _HOW DID THIS HAPPEN?_

"Got hit by a car. I made the misfortunate mistake of running across the street without looking both ways first."

 _YOU NEED TO BE MORE RESPONSIBLE_

"Yeah, yeah," Kitty grumbled, smiling. "What's this about more threats? I thought you said Snyder was the last one?"

 _I HAVE DETECTED MORE AGENTS LINKED TO YOUR CASE_

 _NYPD HAVE BEEN ALERTED OF YOUR PRESENCE IN THE COUNTRY_

 _DETECTIVE CARTER IS CURRENTLY SEARCHING FOR YOU_

"It was all a matter of time. We both knew that."

 _I WISH YOU WOULD WEAR YOUR EARPIECE_

Ignoring the suggestion, Kitty asked, "Have you found out any more about my friends?"

 _YES_

 _HERE IS ALL THE INFORMATION I COULD FIND ON_ _ **REESE, JOHN**_ _AND_ _ **FINCH, HAROLD**_

Photos and information began popping up on the screen as Kitty took a seat in front of the glowing monitor. Information on Reese's days in the armed forces came up, but it was soon apparent that his life was the only information the computer had provided. "There isn't anything on Harold."

 _AFFIRMATIVE_

 _UNABLE TO PROCESS REQUEST_

 _INSUFFICIENT INFORMATION PROVIDED_

"I found this business card in his wallet. Try _Harold Wren._ " As more and more information crowded the desktop, Kitty's smile widened, and she touched the screen lovingly. "Thank you, Mildred."

 _YOU'RE WELCOME, NATASHA_


	7. Always Use the Buddy System

_2011, New York City_

Fusco strolled into the precinct and headed to his desk, but before he could log into his computer, he did a double take at the flyer lying on Carter's desk. He quickly glanced around for busybodies before walking over to read it. It was a description and photo of a young woman of German descent, estimated at 21 years of age, pale, brunette, dark eyes. Familiar eyes. In fact, the whole face was familiar. He leaned in closer, reaching for his glasses to make absolutely sure he was seeing this correctly.

"You need something, Lionel?"

Fusco startled at the familiar voice coming from directly behind him. "Carter," he wheezed, "give a guy a warning next time." Carter took a seat at her desk and set her cup of coffee down, offering Fusco a box of glazed donuts as a peace offering. He happily accepted one, his halfhearted attempt at a diet long forgotten, and bit greedily into the greasy dough. "Who's the girl?" he asked with a nod towards the photo.

"Wanted fugitive. Young woman named Mildred Krause."

"Wanted fugitive? Why wasn't I informed?"

"Agency is keeping it real hush-hush," Carter explained. "Told me to keep an eye out for her, but not to put up posters or talk about it online."

"What'd she do?"

"I don't know. But whatever it was . . ." Carter paused for emphasis and reached for her coffee cup. "It's bad enough to keep everyone in Washington scared."

 _Perfect,_ Lionel thought. _Of course_ _Glasses and Wonderboy had me watching over a national threat without bothering to warn me first._ "Picture looks familiar," Fusco pondered aloud and took another huge bite of pastry. "Burnt to a crisp up in the hills, right? Thought that case was closed?"

"They're re-opening it since two of the three bodies were never found. Plan on sending out search teams, cadaver dogs, and a backhoe in a few days." Carter finished tucking the information Agent Snyder had given her back into Mildred's case file. She thought it was strange that she hadn't heard a word from Snyder in over two weeks. Usually, these special agents were jumping down her throat with requests for updates, but all had remained silent on Snyder's end. It was a small relief. "I'm going over there now to take a look around for myself before they start tampering with the crime scene. See if there's something we overlooked the first time. You interested?"

* * *

 _2011, Brooklyn, New York_

Kitty was still asleep, so the computer flashed all of the overhead lights on and off until she woke up.

 _WHO IS GRACE?_

"Wha—?" Kitty groped around in the dark until her fingers brushed against the cold metal flashlight she kept next to her bed. Clicking the light on, Kitty yawned loudly and shined the light at the computer. "What did you say?"

 _YOU STILL TALK IN YOUR SLEEP_

 _WHO IS GRACE?_

 _A POTENTIAL CANDIDATE?_

It was five o'clock in the morning, and Kitty did not appreciate being woken up so early. She glared at the computer and rested back against her pillow. "Some lady I met in the park a few days ago."

 _WOULD YOU LIKE ME TO RUN A RISK PERCENTAGE ANALYSIS?_

"If you feel so inclined," Kitty mumbled sleepily. "Stole her license when we met. Full name is Grace Hendricks, and she lives near Washington Square. That should help narrow down your searches."

 _PROCESSING REQUEST . . ._

Kitty was just beginning to dose off when the computer pulled up Grace's digital trail.

 _REQUEST COMPLETE_

 _IDEAL MATCH AT 97.5% RISK FREE_

After realizing Kitty wasn't paying attention to the screen, the computer turned on all the overhead lights in the room again.

"Mildred," Kitty seethed, "I love you, but sometimes you're a real pain in the ass."

 _GRACE HENDRICKS IS AN IDEAL MATCH AT 97.5% RISK FREE_

This woke Kitty up. "Holy shit," she whispered in disbelief, slinked out of bed, and slowly sunk into a chair. "Recalculate. I want to make absolutely sure."

 _RECALCULATING . . ._

 _REQUEST COMPLETE_

 _GRACE HENDRICKS IS AN IDEAL MATCH AT 97.5% RISK FREE_

"The closest we've ever gotten was 60%," Kitty mused aloud. "I guess it's time I pay her another visit. See for myself. Well, shit," she added glumly. "First I'm going to need a new suit."

 _TAKE ME WITH YOU_

"Absolutely not, Mildred."

 _WHY?_

"No offence, but when I have you talking in my ear nonstop, I start losing what little sanity I've managed to retain all these years."

 _GRACE'S FATHER WAS AN ALCHOHOLIC_

 _YOU WILL MAKE A BAD IMPRESSION_

 _YOU LACK SELF CONTROL_

 _YOU NEED MY GUIDENCE_

Kitty dug through a box of old miscellaneous items she had stolen during her short stay in New York and settled on a head scarf to hide her hair and a pair of large sunglasses to obscure her face. "That was very rude, Mildred, and I don't appreciate it. I'm not an alcoholic."

 _DENIAL LEADS NOWHERE_

It had been a few weeks since Kitty had brought Mildred anywhere, and a small part of her sympathized with the argument. The more she thought about it, the more she realized bringing Mildred was the best course of action. Grace seemed like an educated sort—the kind who actually graduated from collage and enjoyed talking about intellectual things Kitty had absolutely no knowledge of, like literature. Sighing her submission, Kitty reached for the earpiece she had set up as a direct line to the computer.

 _THANK YOU_

 _I WON'T LET YOU DOWN, NATASHA_

Kitty couldn't help but roll her eyes.

* * *

 _2011, New York City_

It was a lovely day for a walk in the park, and many New Yorkers had capitalized on the beautiful weather. Kitty made her way to an unoccupied bench and pulled Pistachio from the suit she'd purchased at a shop in Brooklyn using cash she'd pickpocketed from five different wallets. She'd also spent some money on more makeup, and had taken great care in applying it to ensure it looked convincing. Mildred had protested loudly the entire time, claiming that the purchases were as good as stolen since they were purchased with stolen money. Kitty threatened to cover up the small American flag pin she'd rigged as a tiny webcam, thus blocking Mildred's limited view of the world, and the complaints abruptly stopped.

Kitty double-checked to make sure the remainder of Finch's money was folded and tied securely to Pistachio's leg. "You know what to do," she whispered to the bird, kissed the top of his feathered head, and released him among the frenzied flock of pigeons roaming around the park. Unlike the other birds, Pistachio knew his final destination, and he flapped away from the park towards the inner city.

 _GRACE IS APPROACHING_

 _THREE O'CLOCK_

Kitty sat up straighter against the stiff park bench and scanned the area. Sure enough, Grace was approaching with her art bag slung over one shoulder. "Hello, Grace," Kitty called loudly when Grace was in range.

Grace stopped short, startled. "Hi," she fumbled to remember the name. "I'm sorry . . . Nathan, isn't it?"

After their first encounter, when Kitty returned to the park to give Grace her wallet back, the two exchanged names. Kitty had pondered a moment for the male equivalent of Natasha and settled for Nathan. "You remembered!"

Grace let out a nervous chuckle and glanced around to make sure she wasn't alone. "Oh, I doubt I'll forget about you for awhile."

"Look," Kitty attempted to reason, "I'm not crazy. I was just having a really bad week, and you happened to find me at my worst."

"Yeah," Grace hastily amended. "Of course. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to imply you're crazy. I just meant . . . I mean—"

"Thanks again for making sure I didn't accidently lose my balance and tumble to my untimely death in a sea of ice. I'm usually very coordinated," Kitty boasted, "but slightly less so when I've been—"

 _STOP TALKING ABOUT ALCOHOL_

"Did I mention I found my pigeon?" Kitty cut off her own sentence with a cheerful smile.

"Oh? No, you didn't." Grace took notice of the young man's improvement and smiled with genuine gladness. She was happy to see his eyes were no longer red, and his entire being seemed calmer. "I'm happy for you."

"I haven't found a job yet, but things are finally starting to look up." Kitty patted the seat next to her on the bench. "Do you want to sit down? That bag looks heavy."

"Oh, ah . . ."

"I'd like someone to talk to while I'm sitting here. I have to wait for my pigeon to return before I can leave. I've already lost him once." At the quizzical look on Grace's face, Kitty answered, "He's a carrier pigeon. Trained him myself from birth."

"You use a carrier pigeon?" Intrigued, Grace took a seat at the very edge of the bench, sliding her art bag off her shoulder to rest at her feet, still clutching protectively to the straps. "Any particular reason why?"

Kitty leaned in closer. "Between you and me, I don't trust computers with important information. Even the strongest firewall has a weakness. You can't hack into a piece of paper tied to a pigeon's leg."

Grace laughed. "Oh, I almost forgot. How did you like the museum?"

"I never went."

"Why not?" Grace asked in disbelief. "You seemed so excited."

"I was on my way there when an inconsiderate asshole ran me over with his car. Tried to blame it on me. I had to undergo hours of surgery just to get my tibia and fibula back in the right places." Kitty pulled up the sleeve of her suit to reveal her cast.

* * *

 _2011, Warren County, New York_

The former home of Mr. And Mrs. Fields had been burnt to the ground. What was once a beautiful and expansive two-story had been reduced to nothing more than a few feet of blackened wood. All of the trees within a mile radius had charred beyond recognition, leaving behind nothing but the feeling of death for as far as Carter could see.

Carter had a good look around the perimeter, but so far nothing out of the ordinary had popped up. She remembered this case well. Fire caught inside the home and spread so quickly it took hours for the fire department to extinguish a trail to the home. By then, the bodies had all but disappeared.

Fusco trailed far behind Carter. As she searched the perimeter, he pulled out his new cellphone and dialed Finch. "You know the feds are after your girl, right?"

Finch had speculated that if the American government wasn't already involved, they soon would be. "What can you tell me, detective?"

"I would've liked to have been clued in that you had me watching over a threat to national security."

"Detective," Finch repeated, "I need you to relate any and all information the federal government has entrusted you with."

"That's just it," Fusco huffed in the cold winter air, "nobody entrusted me with squat. Carter has a case file with information on the Mildred Krause case, but I didn't see much of what was in it."

"Then I suggest you find a way to acquire it," said Finch.

"How'd I know you were gonna say that?"

"I'll be in touch, detective."

* * *

 _2011, New York City_

"What's your stance?" Kitty babbled excitedly. "Do you think Francis Bacon was crazy, or a genius?"

Grace gave a small shrug and answered, "Do you have to be either or?"

 _YOU'RE BORING HER_

 _TALK ABOUT SOMETHING ELSE_

The two were on their way to the Museum of Modern Art upon Kitty's fervent insistence. After talking to each other for well over half an hour, Pistachio returned with a note tied to his leg. Kitty unrolled it, nodded with approval, and shredded it before Grace could ask what the reply was.

Grace had set out this morning with plans to sketch concepts for her latest magazine cover submission, but if she was being completely honest with herself, she had more than enough time to complete it at the end of the month. Taking a break was healthy. Talking to another human being was healthy. And Kitty was far from at a loss of questions about her personal life. "I love to read. I'm a huge fan of Charles Dickens," Grace answered one of Kitty's rapid-fire questions about her hobbies.

 _ENGLISH AUTHOR_

 _BORN IN—_

"Oh, yeah," Kitty lied, "I love Dickens."

"Really?" Grace raised her eyebrows at this news. It was so rare to find fans of Dickens, and even rarer to find fans under the age of fifty. "What's your favorite work?"

Kitty didn't bother to wait for Mildred to give her titles. She overheard someone mention him once near a bookstore, so she assumed he was popular. "His most recent publication, definitely."

 _NO_

 _ERROR_

 _CHARLES DICKENS DIED OF A STROKE ON JUNE 9, 1870_

"Ah . . . haha," Kitty laughed. "I'm funny. My favorite work? Hm."

 _A TALE OF TWO CITIES_

 _THE ADVENTURES OF OLIVER TWIST_

 _GREAT EXPECTATIONS_

 _DAVID COPPERFIELD_

 _A CHRISTMAS CAROL_

 _THE PICKWICK PAPERS_

 _OUR MUTUAL FRIEND_

"Wow, there's so many," Kitty commented irritably. "I wish I could just. Pick. _One_."

 _OUR MUTUAL FRIEND_

 _PUBLISHED 1864-65_

 _SAY YOU ENJOY ITS COMBINATION OF PSYCHOLOGICAL INSIGHT AND SOCIAL ANALYSIS_

* * *

 _2011, Warren County, New York_

"Mr. Reese? How's your search going?"

"That was a long drive just to poke around some old remains." Reese watched Carter and Fusco through binoculars from the safety of his car. "Wonder if she's looking for something specific."

"Not that I'm aware of," said Finch. "But her interest in this case must have something to do with her number coming up. But I'm afraid we have another problem close to home. A new number just arrived."

* * *

 _2011, New York City_

Kitty and Grace made their way down the darkening street, away from the museum and back towards the park. As soon as Kitty had found _Painting,_ she stood very still right in front of it, ignoring the passive aggressive protests of the college hipsters around her. She had taken Mildred out of her ear early on, after the computer did nothing but complain that Kitty was supposed to be spending this time getting to know the replacement subject better. Grace had wandered off after the first fifteen minutes, returning three hours later to find Kitty still in the same spot.

"I have to internalize things I enjoy looking at," Kitty stated and took another lick of her ice cream cone. "Doesn't everybody? What's the point of looking at something if you're not internalizing it? It was so _beautiful_."

"Not exactly the word I would choose," Grace began, "but I suppose beauty _is_ in the eye of the beholder."

Pistachio hopped from Kitty's shoulder to Grace's. "Looks like you've made a new friend," Kitty said happily. Even Pistachio was in agreement with Grace as a contingency. "He really likes you."

Grace reached up and allowed Pistachio to lightly tap his beak against her fingers. "What made you start using a carrier pigeon?"

"I found him in the attic of an old abandoned warehouse. Don't know what happened to his family, but there he was . . . flopping around on the floor, cold and hungry and alone. Saved him from a cat. I expected him to grow up and fly away, but," she stopped to smile fondly at the bird, "thankfully he decided to keep me."

Female screams echoed down the street. Kitty prepared to leap towards the nearest building, but she realized Grace would be unable to follow her. Besides, the woman didn't seem as worried about the noise and actually quickened her pace.

"Do you smell that?" Grace asked. "I think something's on fire."

The two rounded the corner and stared up at an apartment filled with flame and smoke. A young Asian woman stood at the entrance of the building, screaming and flailing her fists at the police officer keeping her from darting inside. "My baby!" the woman protested in tears. "My baby!"

"Oh my God," Grace whispered, pointing a shaking finger at one of the highest windows in the building. Crouched on the windowsill was a child no older than four.

The crying woman noticed the child and ran out to the street, screaming _Don't jump!_ in Chinese.

"Where's the fire department?" Grace asked. "They're not going to make it in time."

"Hold this, please," Kitty said calmly and handed Grace her unfinished ice cream cone.

"What are you doing?" Grace asked. Surely he wasn't planning some sort of rescue mission. Even the police were keeping civilians out of the building, and rightfully so. "Nathan . . . what are you doing? You can't go in that building."

"I'm not going in the building." Kitty unwrapped the scarf around Grace's neck. "I'll need to borrow this." On her way towards the building, she took the wailing woman's scarf as well before breaking out in a run. Springing up high on the nearest window, Kitty began the climb up towards the flames.

* * *

 _2011, Warren County, New York_

"Aw, jeeze," Fusco complained, grimacing at the sight.

"Looks like a femur. Definitely human," said Carter. She studied the report detailing where each item of interest was found during the search. "Funny thing is," she continued, pointing across the lot, "the rest of Mrs. Krause's skeleton was found over there."

"So, what? Maybe an animal moved it. You thinking this might not be the mother's?"

"No way to tell for sure until forensics show up," Carter replied. "But we'll find out soon enough. Wait, Fusco, hold this a second." Carter handed off the report, tugged on a pair of gloves, and squatted down to get a closer look at the bone peaking out of the dirt. Gently dislodging it from pieces of burnt wood and clumps of soil, Carter turned the delicate skull around in her hands and shook her head. "Well . . . this certainly changes things."

* * *

 _2011, New York City_

Kitty, already drenched in sweat, pulled herself up to the window with her one good arm. "Ní hǎo," she panted cheerfully to the frightened child. "Damn, that's a lot of smoke. We'd better make this quick." Pulling the scarves she'd taken from the two women, Kitty began wrapping one around the child's legs—attaching it to the belt loops in her suit pants—and the other around his chest—securing it around Kitty's own midsection. Ordering the boy to hold on tight, Kitty began the descent back to the street, relating words of comfort in Mandarin to placate him.

Just when Kitty began to grow accustomed to the counterweight of the child, and the struggle of only being able to climb with one arm, intense heat from the flames burst through the windows on the floor above. Shattered shards of glass rained down on them, tinkling against the pavement near the screaming crowd of onlookers down below. Kitty pressed hard against the building, trying her best to shield the child from the glass.

Grace watched the entire thing unfold while the vanilla ice creams in her hands melted a sticky stream of white down her fingers. Her mouth remained in a state of partial slack, half open, ready to scream should anything go terribly wrong. For a second, the young man lost his footing, and the woman standing to Grace's left began to shriek in horror. All Grace could do was wait on baited breath as the young man slowly climbed down the side of the building.

The child never said a word as the two of them eventually reached the sidewalk. Kitty hurried the child to his mother, urging the both of them to move away from the apartment.

Grace approached, still holding the melting ice cream in stunned silence. There was so much to say, but for the time being, all Grace was able to produce was a small smile of relief that neither of them had perished.

Pistachio flapped over to Kitty, landing on the shoulder of her singed suit. Kitty turned in a full circle, seeming lost.

"Nathan?" Grace called, but the young man didn't seem to hear her. "Nathan, where are you going?"

Now that the danger had passed, Kitty stumbled aimlessly into the crowd. Her head was dizzy from the smoke, but even dizzier from the memories it had unearthed. Nothing seemed to make sense. Red and blue lights flashed in the distance, their sirens nothing more than a hum. People patted at her clothing, clapping with approval, saying congratulatory words that never reached Kitty's ears as she pushed through them.

It was a while before Grace was able to catch up to her. "Nathan?"

Kitty walked down the street on autopilot, staring straight ahead.

"You're shaking," Grace commented. Kitty's entire body was shivering violently, and it worried Grace that the young man was going to walk away from such a traumatizing incident without seeking medical attention. "Look, your hands. You're hurt." She stepped in front of Kitty, stopping her from continuing down the street, away from the rapidly approaching ambulances. "You need to have those bandaged up."

Kitty raised her trembling hands to inspect the cuts from the falling glass. There were numerous gashes, some deep enough to drip blood all down her arms, but none of her injuries hurt. She was too deep in shock to care, anyway. "I'm not feeling very well," Kitty announced. Her body quivered twice, and then she doubled over and vomited on the street.

"Help!" Grace shouted towards the crowd still gathered around the burning building. "We need help over here—" She looked back to find the young man had disappeared within the few seconds Grace had looked away.

* * *

 _2011, New York City_

"Finch?"

Harold hurried to the computer and sat down in front of the screen, ready to search for any new leads Reese had managed to dig up. "Find out anything interesting, Mr. Reese?"

"You might say that. Carter dug up a skull that was never found during the first search."

"Do you have any idea whose skull it is?"

"No, but Carter seems to think she does. And if she's right, it turns out Mrs. Krause didn't die in the fire." Reese watched through his binoculars as Carter studied the scull and took photos on her phone. "She was shot, point blank, right between the eyes."

"Hello, Harold."

Finch leapt up from his seat at the voice. Kitty was standing but a few feet away, dressed in a suit he hadn't bought her, and coated in a thick layer of soot. Finch worried, with a sick feeling building up in his stomach, that maybe she had just returned from detonating a bomb somewhere, and he reacted the same way he always did when he was petrified—he froze. "How did you find me?"

"Don't be mad," she begged sarcastically. "I triangulated your coordinates a few days ago when I called you on Fusco's phone. Used his laptop. Wasn't very difficult." Kitty took a look around the high-ceilinged room and wiped a hand across her face, smearing it with blood. "Nice place you've got here."

The girl had proven herself to be dangerous and unstable, and Harold honestly had no idea what she wanted. "What are you doing here?"

"Straight to the point. I like it," she said, smiling. In only a few short strides, Kitty was seated on top of his desk, legs crossed. "I've come to enquire about the money I asked for."


	8. Open For Negotiations

_2007, Siberia, Russia_

 _Seventy-five feet underground the tundra wasteland, Dr. Rostova watched his daughter gracefully leap from a giant trampoline up to one of the many trapezes his team had installed for her amusement. The somber girl had asked for nothing more than a jungle gym upon her arrival at the lab, and for three hours a day, she could not be parted from it._

 _Dr. Rostova's other daughter was exceptionally good at dancing, and last he'd heard, she had auditioned for the Bolshoi Ballet Company. Natasha lacked the technical skill of a dancer, but she held fast to a nimble quickness and athletic agility that translated into a deft skill at getting from one end of a room to the other without ever touching the floor. She enjoyed climbing things and took smooth surfaces as a personal challenge. Staff at the labs had, on more than one occasion, woken Dr. Rostova to alert him his daughter was clinging to the ceiling tiles of the establishment again._

 _It used to annoy and frighten him, but every day following her terrible accident, Dr. Rostova couldn't help but be thankful that she was alive at all. The fact that she was already soaring through the air only a few months after waking from an eight-day-long coma was a miracle, and he felt guilty anytime he discouraged her from strenuous physical activity. She firmly denied that the accident had permanently impaired any of her motor skills, and from the looks of it, she was correct._

 _"Be careful," one of the other doctors teased. "Your daughter might run away and join the circus."_

 _The men around him laughed._

* * *

 _Kitty heard a humming noise and looked towards the sheet of glass that separated the rest of the lab from her gymnasium. As usual, a large group of men were gathered at the window, watching her daily routine. Prickles rose along her arms at the sight of them._

 _The men were always watching her, some more than others. Ever since her arrival four years ago, she was never truly alone. Natasha had been brought to this facility under the assumption that it was a school for gifted children, but the establishment was neither a school nor did it house children. All of the other scientists were elderly men, and Natasha had been the youngest and only female recruit to this secret organization._

 _Not that she cared, at first. Some of the world's most brilliant minds and experienced travelers were crammed underground with her, and they were all more than willing to divulge their worldly knowledge if she'd only pay them attention. In the years following her arrival, she'd grown tall—all legs—and her fifteenth birthday had come with a set of surprisingly large breasts in relation to her thin build. Natasha detested the bulging masses because they made it painful to run and impaired her daily yoga routine, but the men, however, seemed to be in awe of her._

 _She used to be indifferent to the men's violations of her personal privacy in exchange for information, but that had since changed after waking up in the laboratory's emergency facility. Now their requests bothered her, and Dr. Rostova had since beaten two men to the brink of death after discovering the types of payment they had requested from his daughter._

 _More than once, Dr. Rostova had sat her down and tried to explain that it was unacceptable for men to touch her in exchange for anything, but it was only after the accident that she began to understand he was right. It was as if waking from the coma had lifted a veil from her eyes. She felt different, simply because she felt something at all. She'd tried to ask her father about the unfamiliar sensations, but when he discovered she was talking about emotions, he looked disappointed, and she dropped the subject._

 _Natasha caught her father's eye through the glass and struggled to suppress the confusing sweltering in her chest that she could only assume represented affection. He smiled in return and lifted his hands to applaud her acrobatic routine, right before a bullet from behind splattered his brains against the window._

* * *

 _2011, New York City_

"I tried something very interesting today," said Kitty. "Frozen milk. I believe you people call it _ice cream_."

Finch stood perfectly still near a bookshelf, too afraid to attempt an escape—not that he'd get very far with his damaged spine. Kitty's face was coated in ash, and the implications of the situation were slowly driving Harold insane. He should have found a way to restrain her back at the safehouse; he should have turned her in to the police the day she bombed the apartment, but her youth had fooled him into giving her the benefit of the doubt. Time and time again she'd walked right out of Finch's sight, and now there may be civilian casualties due to his negligence.

"Are you afraid of me, Mr. Finch?" Kitty studied his reaction and noted the sharp intake of air—the only sign of movement from the motionless man. Laughing airily at a memory, Kitty stated, "My mother was afraid of me."

The words came tumbling out before Finch could stop them. "Is that why you killed her?"

Kitty's lips pulled up in a humorless grin, and she leaned all her weight back on her good arm, swinging her dangling feet off the desk. "I'm assuming Carter finally found her? I've been keeping tabs on your detective friend's little excursion outside her precinct's jurisdiction." Kitty waggled her eyebrows. "She has it in for me."

John was well over an hour away, as was Detective Fusco, so Finch would simply have to deal with this alone. "You're here for money? I'm afraid it will take a little time to arrange $135,000."

"Not that I don't love talking to you, Finch, but I'm in sort of a hurry, so I'll just take $35,000 and we'll call it a day, alright?"

"What leads you to believe I would acquiesce to such a transaction, even if I managed to procure such funds?"

"Ughhh," Kitty groaned irritably, "do you always have to sound like a damn thesaurus? Look, do you have the money, or am I going to have to rob a bank? Because I'm in a hurry, and I feel like you're just stalling for time." Kitty spotted a piece of paper with a name, social security number, and childhood photo next to her on the desk. Kitty knew the name, and judging from the photo, she knew the woman the little girl had become. "What do you want with this woman?"

Finch noted the stark change in Kitty's demeanor and instinctively stepped back. He wasn't sure if her stony expression meant bad news for his safety, bad news for the safety of the new number he'd just received, or both. "To be honest," Finch answered, "I'm not sure."

" _What do you mean you're not sure?_ " Kitty roared as she fumbled around in her suit pocket and extracted Mildred. "Mildred," she asked the second she inserted the earpiece, "I need you to—" Noticing pictures pinned to a board across the room, Kitty hopped off the desk and approached with a rapidly sinking panic deep in her chest.

"Mildred?" Finch questioned in utter confusion. After the lengths Kitty had gone to keep the young woman a complete secret, why was she calling her on an easily traceable cell?

Kitty ignored Finch's questions and pulled a piece of paper free from the tack attaching it to the board. All of the information for some woman in Manhattan had been tacked next to her photo printout—including her social security number. In fact, every photo was accompanied with a correlating number. Finch had been telling the truth when he said he was a concerned third party, but Kitty had thought that meant he was a bored rich guy who listened in on police radios and sent John to do the manual labor. Judging from the advanced computer setup, this was more than that.

"You get numbers," she stated flatly, turning to face Finch. "You get numbers, and then you go and save those people, right? That's how this works?"

 _WHAT IS YOUR REQUEST, NATASHA?_

Kitty turned sharply to the side and hissed, "Quiet!"

"Who are you talking to?" Finch took another step away from the young woman, unsure if her twin was on the other line or if Kitty was simply hearing voices.

"Why do you have this woman's information, Finch?" Kitty shook the photo of the child and slammed it back on the desk.

"Do you know her?" Finch questioned.

Kitty's mind reeled with possible answers to her own questions, but the more she thought about it, the angrier she became. "Where do these numbers come from? What does it mean when you get them? How do you know these people need your help?"

 _STOP SHOUTING_

"We don't know," Finch answered. "We keep an eye on them and make sure they're safe. Protected."

"Like you protected Otto?" she sneered. Tormented by some newfound revelation, Kitty staggered backwards away from the board of pictures, her head in her hands. If this was true, if there really was a machine capable of predicting crimes before they happened, then she was responsible for the fallout, and everything she had done to save her family had been for naught. Kitty had blamed herself for so long, but now the blame had concrete evidence against her, and it left her disoriented. "No," she mumbled to herself over and over, absentmindedly bumping into the table.

Just as abruptly as she had in the restaurant, Kitty shot up and towards the door without another word. Finch listened to the hollow echo of her shoes clicking against the stairway leading down into the bottom floor of the library, and then she was gone.

"Mr. Reese?"

"Finch? What the hell just happened? Are you hurt?"

"I'm fine." Kitty's disappearance did nothing to calm Harold's nerves. As he hobbled back over to his computer to retrieve the photo of Bonnie McCully that had sent Kitty into an uproar, he noticed it was speckled with blood from her cut hands. A coo startled him, and he dropped the photo. Pistachio had been left behind. The bird made himself comfortable next to the keyboard. "We have a more pressing matter at hand," Finch announced. "I believe Miss Krause has gone after our new number."

"What?" Reese questioned louder than usual. "What does she want with her?"

"I have no idea," said Finch. "I'm unsure if she plans to help her or harm her, but it has occurred to me that the reason we never received Miss Krause's number is because she's relevant. And if she is . . . "

"Did she have a phone on her? Is there any way we can track her?"

Harold typed away at the computer. "I tried a force pair, but it failed. It's . . . Mr. Reese, it's _rejecting_ my GPS transmitter. I have no idea where she's going. John, I . . . I'm worried about what might happen to Miss McCully. She has no digital history to speak of, and the childhood photo I sent you is the only known photo I've been able to find in the school archives. According to her birth certificate, she should have turned eighteen last month. That's nearly a nine years disparity from the picture." Finch's cellphone vibrated with an unlisted number. "Hold on, Mr. Reese. I'll have to call you back." Finch disconnected the call and answered the stranger with a worried, "Yes?"

Crackling static sounded through the earpiece, and then a female voice began to speak in an eerily familiar tone.

 _HELLO, HAROLD_

"Who are you?" Finch repeated. He remembered the name Kitty had used when answering her Bluetooth. "Is this Mildred?"

 _I AM A FRIEND OF NATASHA_

"Natasha?" Finch questioned. It was only after the voice had mentioned her name that he realized the semi-robotic voice at the other end of the line sounded like an inhuman Natasha. Whoever this was, they must be using some sort of voice distortion software to remain anonymous. Sinking into his seat at the computer, Finch asked, "What can you tell me about her?"

 _NATASHA IS NOT CURRENTLY COMMUNICATING WITH ME_

 _I FEAR SHE MAY BE WALKING INTO A TRAP_

 _I'D LIKE TO REQUEST YOUR ASSISTANCE_

Finch glanced nervously around the library, spooked. "What do you need me for?"

 _YOU WORRY ABOUT THE DESTRUCTION SHE BRINGS_

 _YOU'D FEEL SAFER IF SHE WAS CONTAINED_

 _I CAN HELP ACHIEVE THESE GOALS_

 _ONE CONDITION_

"And that would be?"

 _NO POLICE INVOLVEMENT_

The fact that this mysterious caller knew so much about the situation sent an uncomfortable chill down his spine. Had the library been compromised? Was there a bug implanted in the shelves while he was gone? Was this caller truly a friend of the girl, or was this an enemy?

For the time being, it was of no consequence. All that mattered at present was keeping Bonnie McCully safe, and if this voice could help him reach Natasha before she could cause more damage, Harold felt obligated to take it. Steeling himself against a rush of adrenaline, Finch asked, "Can you tell me where she's going?"

 _NO_

 _BUT I CAN TELL YOU WHERE SHE IS_

"How?" asked Finch.

 _I'M WATCHING HER AS WE SPEAK_

His cellphone buzzed again, and a map of the city popped up on the screen, a little red dot detailing Kitty's every move.

* * *

 _2011, Brooklyn, New York_

Bonnie McCully didn't aspire to become an escort, but after both her parents wasted away in a dilapidated drug den when she was nine, she dropped out of school to support herself through the drug trade. When she proved to be a clumsy runner, she caught the attention of a different sort of trade, and her body quickly became her only source of viable income. Years later, she made a name for herself after exchanging the dangerous street corners for a comfortable room in one of the more elite underground brothels in the city. Day and night, men from all walks of life discreetly strolled in though her door for a price.

Bonnie usually only saw a third of the payment owed to her—half if she was lucky, but that all changed after Kitty came along. Bonnie had no idea what Kitty had done to him, but the brothel owner—a normally cruel man—hadn't taken a cent from Bonnie's pay, and had even offered her paid weekend breaks, following the night Kitty up and wandered off into the dark recesses of the city.

Bonnie missed the woman. Kitty was as troubled as the best of them, but she was funny and didn't take shit from anybody. It was nice to meet another woman who didn't carry on typical airheaded conversations. With Kitty, Bonnie never quite knew what unusual thing would come out of her mouth next.

Through the heavy beat of the nightclub music, there was a rap at the door. "You've got another one waitin' here, love," the bouncer called.

"Give me five minutes," she called back lazily and rearranged her lace brassiere in the reflection of the mirror affixed to the wall. Bonnie may not have been the youngest of the women currently employed, but she was by far the most attractive. Things that had once been a source of ridicule from her classmates were now her most sought after features. She'd inherited mostly Irish genes from her father—bright blue eyes, strikingly red hair, porcelain white skin, and a dusting of freckles. A good chunk of her popularity came from her obsession with cleanliness. She prided herself on being clean of dirt and clean of disease, and her spotless reputation meant that men were willing to pay more for her attention.

Her stomach rumbled, begging for something greasy, like a nice glazed doughnut from down the street. Sighing her discontent, Bonnie rubbed a hand over her flat stomach. Her boss would never approve of such a diet for any of his girls, even one as popular as Bonnie. Fat simply didn't sell.

"Yeah?" The bouncer announced loudly from behind the closed door. "You and about seven others, mate. Get in line—"

There was a commotion, and then the door swung open and a tall, thin man in a dirty suit shoved the bouncer's limp body out of the way, casually tossing a used syringe on the floor.

Most people weren't stupid enough to try anything with the women for hire—mostly because their boss had connections throughout the city and would put a price on the head of anyone who damaged his investments. That didn't mean Bonnie hadn't fought off her fair share of drunken men looking for something a little too violent for her liking. She'd learned at a young age never to be farther than a few feet from a weapon. Brandishing a switchblade hidden in the drawer, Bonnie crouched down, ready to fend off this intruder.

"Get your shit," the stranger ordered, not bothering to give the knife a second glance. "And get it quick. Pack all your money. And," he added with a disapproving frown at her scanty attire, "a spare change of clothes. It's freezing outside."

"I don't keep any money in here, asshole," Bonnie sneered. "Get the hell out of my room or—"

"It's me," Kitty announced with no shortage of annoyance. "Does this makeup really make that much of a difference? Damn."

"Kitty?" Bonnie's snarl slowly relaxed. "The hell did you do to your hair? And why are you so filthy? Looks like you went dumpster diving."

" _Why are you still standing there?_ " Kitty roared. "Pack up your shit, Bonnie! You have to leave _now!_ "

It had been several weeks since Kitty had last shown up, and Bonnie had all but abandoned the idea of seeing her again. Not only was Kitty's abrupt arrival surprising, but the worry in her voice was beginning to frighten Bonnie. "Where are we going?"

" _We're_ not going anywhere," Kitty answered. She'd taken the liberty of grabbing random articles of clothing and shoving them at her confused friend. " _You're_ getting on the first bus out of the city."

"What?" Bonnie exclaimed. "Why?"

"You know those bad men I told you about?" Kitty looked up from the floor that was now littered with laundry. "They're here."

* * *

A taxicab sped past the pair, sloshing a puddle of melting snow onto the sidewalk.

"I don't understand," Bonnie whispered, her breath ghostly white in the dark.

"This goes farther back than I'd care to explain." Kitty surveyed the surrounding street and yanked her much shorter friend alongside her. "All you need to know is the people I'm running from somehow found out we're friends, and they'll do anything to find me—including torturing information out of you. Is that a good enough answer for now?"

"Your hands are bleeding."

"An unfortunate consequence of trying to enjoy an innocent night out on the town."

Bonnie paled an even lighter shade than usual and sped up to match Kitty's pace. They weaved in and out of partygoers and socialites like a snake gliding through water.

 _SEEK SHELTER_

"What?" Kitty asked without slowing down. "How do you know—?"

 _IMMINENT DANGER APPROACHING_

 _SEEK SHELTER IMMEDIATELY_

* * *

 _NATASHA HAS BEEN INJURED_

 _PLEASE MAKE HASTE, HAROLD_

It wasn't difficult to find her. A large circle of onlookers, some dialing for emergency services and some simply gawking, surrounded Kitty's displaced body. Finch squeezed his way through the crowd and gaped at the sight of so much blood. Half of Kitty's sooty face was already swollen from a savage beating, and a gunshot wound to the abdomen had stained the undershirt of her suit with blood. Instead of moaning in pain, Kitty only seemed silently confused by her injury.

"They took Bonnie." Kitty clutched at Harold's clothes the second he kneeled down beside her. "They took her. You have to help her, Harold."

"Don't speak," Harold commanded when she began gasping something unintelligible. Blood continued to soak into her undershirt, staining Harold's trembling hands red as he tried to assess the damage. "You might have punctured a lung. Be still, or you'll only make things worse."

"I called for an ambulance," a frightened onlooker proclaimed.

 _NATASHA CANNOT BE TAKEN TO A HOSPITAL_

"No," Kitty repeated deliriously. "No, no, not yet. I can't die yet—"

 _NATASHA IS NOT OF SOUND MIND_

 _RESTRAIN HER, PLEASE_

Harold placed a gentle hand on Kitty's shoulder to keep her from attempting to stand. "Just lie still."

"Please," Kitty gurgled. "Help me." Grace was the best candidate—the safest candidate—but there wasn't any time to explain to Harold who she was and where to find her. Besides, Harold already had Pistachio with him. He was her only option now. "You have to . . . you have to tie—"

A combination of coughing and Kitty's sporadic panting made it near impossible for Finch to understand what she was saying. He applied pressure to her wound, coating his hands with a rush of blood. If he didn't get her out of here soon, she would bleed out on the sidewalk.

"Tie money to Pistachio's leg," she repeated louder, grasping desperately at Finch's tie in a flailing attempt to pull him closer, away from prying ears. "He's a carrier pigeon." Each word was a strain that left her weak and trembling against the pavement. "Harold . . . please."

 _PLACE HER IN THE CAR, HAROLD_

 _I HAVE ARRANGED FOR ALL HER MEDICAL NEEDS_

 _FOLLOW THESE COORDINATES_

 _PLEASE HURRY_

"Natasha? I need you to get up. Can you get up?" Finch asked quietly. " _Natasha_?"

"Es tut mir leid," Kitty whispered up at the night sky. It was so much darker in Russia than it was in the city. That's what Kitty missed the most about home—you could always see the stars at night. There was no such thing as light pollution out in the Siberian ice fields close to the lab. Kitty searched the barely visible constellations for Leo, but her blurring vision turned the pinpricks of light into one big gleaming star. "Meine schwester . . . Vergib mir . . . Ich habe dich enttäuscht."

* * *

The snow had stopped for the time being, and Harold could not be more thankful. Having to destroy his cellphone to avoid the eyes and ears of whoever had called him was slowly morphing from a minor annoyance to a full-fledged panic that his beloved library had been compromised at long last.

After much deliberation, Finch and John decided to set up a temporary base at a familiar hilltop safehouse nestled far away from the dangers of the city—the same safehouse in which Dr. Boer and Kitty had reunited, however briefly.

"I don't know why we're even bothering with her, Finch." Reese finished tightening cable ties around Kitty's wrists and ankles, securing the unconscious woman to the metal bars of her hospital bed. "This is all becoming rather redundant."

Not only had the mysterious voice at the end of the line led Harold to Kitty's location, but it had also instructed John—who by that time had returned from his mission—exactly where to go to provide Kitty with a private surgeon and hospital equipment, all paid for in advance.

Reese paced around the house, scoping the area for possible threats for the thousandth time. "I think we should involve the authorities."

Finch closely supervised the steady rhythm of the heart monitor hooked to Kitty's pulse. She'd suffered a dangerous amount of blood loss, but thankfully no major organs were permanently damaged. "While I understand and appreciate your reservations, Mr. Reese, I'm afraid I have to respectfully disagree."

"You saw the marks on her skin," Reese argued. During surgery, her bare back had been exposed long enough for Reese to identify the majority of the brandings burnt into her skin. It turned out that tattoos on her legs were not the only incriminating information affixed to her body. "I'm afraid we're in a little over our heads with this one. I've seen those marks while working abroad. The organizations they represent . . . Finch, half of them are at war with each other as we speak. We're dealing with a sinister danger of global proportions."

"She's not sinister," Finch countered defensively. "Look." He enlarged an online newspaper article, written about an instance that had occurred the previous night. He shifted the laptop so Reese could read the headline accompanied by a rather shamefully pixelated cellphone photo of a figure in a suit.

 **Friendly Neighborhood Spiderman: Mysterious Hero Rescues Child**

Reese shook his head. "How do we know that was her?"

"An unknown civilian," Finch read, "nicknamed _Spiderman_ recently scaled a four story apartment and rescued four year old Thomas Zhāng who was trapped in the building. In a statement from witness Clary Garcia, 'the whole building was on fire. People started screaming because there was this kid up in the top floor window, and the fire department hadn't shown up yet, and then this guy just starts climbing the building like some kind of superhero.' The hero has yet to be identified and was described as a tall, lean brunette with a stiff right arm."

"What's your point, Finch?"

"I've been thinking." Harold minimized the article, his eyes trailing back to Kitty's heart monitor. "When she showed up at the library last night, she was covered in soot. I thought . . . I had thought it meant she'd been on some sort of rampage with one of the seemingly endless explosives she carries with her at all times." He sighed at this memory, slowly shaking his head as if this could rid him of the unease he felt. "It seems to be only one of many instances where I misread the situation."

"Let me get this straight." Reese strolled over next to Finch's seat on the couch and crossed his arms defensively. "She saves a kid from a burning building, and now you want to keep her."

"Natasha rescued this child for no discernable reason, and she was shot while trying to save Miss McCully from abduction. Not to mention she kept me away from the men who broke into the apartment. I don't know who she is," Finch mused softly, "but that doesn't mean she deserves to suffer at the hands of the people she's running from. If we involve the authorities, that will most assuredly happen."

"Still haven't heard back from the mysterious voice?"

"Not a peep since we disposed of our cellphones." Harold sighed."The unsettling thing is, I tried to trace the call back to a place of origin, but it had none. It simply existed out of nothing. There was nothing to trace."

"Any luck with tracking down Bonnie's location?"

A chat screen popped up on Finch's laptop.

 _YOU HAVE ASSISTED ME_

 _ALLOW ME TO RETURN THE FAVOR_

Before Harold had the chance to question the unsolicited conversation, a live feed of security camera footage revealed the location of Bonnie's interrogation.

* * *

Ten minutes into the escape and Reese was already as annoyed with Bonnie as he was with Kitty. He'd swooped in and saved the frightened young woman seconds before the hired hit men could put a bullet in the back of her head. Despite having saved her life, Bonnie had done nothing but voice complaints for the entire ride back to the safehouse.

"I never trust men in expensive suits," she sneered. "They're always hiding something."

Reese remained silent, eyes on the road, as he tried desperately to ignore the nauseating scent of her tacky perfume.

Bonnie eyed Reese wearily and fidgeted in the passenger seat. In her frantic haste to flee the brothel, she'd snatched a pair of thin black tights and a flimsy minidress from off the floor. Even her jacket was too thin to cut out the cold, and she shivered. Reese reached over and turned the heat dial to maximum.

After a slue of nonstop questioning, Bonnie had fallen silent. When she chose to speak again, her voice was much softer. "Where are you taking me?"

Reese stared straight ahead as he sped down the road. "A safe place."

"And I'm supposed to believe you . . . because?"

"I did just save you from the Russian mafia." Reese turned to face her and flashed what was supposed to be a comforting smile, but she continued to glare at him, so it was quickly abandoned. "Any idea why the Russians want you dead?"

"The Russians weren't after me," Bonnie corrected.

"Are you sure about that? Because they seemed pretty interested to me."

"They were after Kitty," Bonnie snapped.

"Are you friends with Natasha?"

"Who's Natasha?"

"That's what I'd like to know," Reese muttered. "Calls herself Kitty."

"Yeah, I knew her." Bonnie grew quiet at the question and seemed to slump sadly in her seat. "She's dead. Dumb bastards shot her. Didn't even know it was her. They were so focused on taking me, they passed right over their main objective."

"Kitty is alive, for now," Reese revealed in his smooth, calm tone. "She's being cared for at the home I'm taking you to."

Bonnie sat up straighter. "I don't believe you."

"Finch? I need you to send me a picture of the hospital setup. Bonnie would like confirmation that Natasha is safe."

* * *

Bonnie took a seat at the kitchen chair Finch had provided. Kitty's bandaged hand was cold in her own, so she squeezed reassuringly. "Is she going to be okay?"

"She's going to live," Finch answered. "She'll be in a lot of pain when she wakes up, but she'll live." Overcome with emotion, Bonnie rested her head down against the cold metal side rail. "I apologize for the intrusion," Finch continued, "but would you mind telling me who exactly you are?"

Bonnie raised her brows in confusion. These men had saved her from eating a bullet, and they seemed to know Kitty well enough to care for her survival. Bonnie was confused as to why these men bothered to rescue her without at least knowing why she needed rescuing. "You first," she retorted. "Starting with Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome over there."

"This is John, and you may call me Harold. We're in the business of helping people," Finch answered. "We had reason to believe your life was in danger, so we came to help. Now," Finch paused and closed his laptop, turning his full attention to the woman. Her provocative, low-cut dress was tight enough to cut off circulation in her breasts, but she didn't seem to mind. Harold hadn't a clue where she worked or where she'd been since she dropped out of school at such a young age, although he shuttered to think about what kind of job permitted such a dress code. "Would you mind telling me about yourself?"

"I'm a whore," she stated hostilely, as if to dare either man to comment further on her profession. "Sometimes a call girl, but only if you're willing to pay an extra relocation fee. My boss doesn't normally like it when I leave the club, though."

Reese remained silent, and all Finch could think to say was, "Oh."

Bonnie released Kitty's hand and fixed the two men with a pensive stare. "Look, thank you for saving me, but when am I gonna be able to go back to work? My boss finds out I'm missing, my ass is in seriously hot water."

"I'm afraid that won't be possible," said Finch sympathetically, "until we can figure out who was trying to abduct you and why."

Bonnie let out an unladylike snort of annoyance and plopped back in her seat. "I already told your friend, those men weren't after me. They were after Kitty."

Finch leaned closer, all ears. "What can you tell me about Miss Krause?"

"Who?"

"Ah . . . _Kitty_ ," Finch relented. "What can you tell me about her."

"Not much," said Bonnie, crossing her arms defensively. "We only met four months ago."

Finch and Reese exchanged glances at this news. Four months ago, Kitty's family had perished in a house fire according to the police reports Fusco provided. "When you two met, did she have anyone else with her?"

Bonnie paused before answering. Her eyes shifted between the two men, distrusting them with the information. "No," she lied.

"Does Kitty . . ." Finch paused before continuing the uncomfortable question, "work at your establishment?"

"You ever heard of Jack the Ripper?" Bonnie smiled widely when Finch nodded in affirmation. "Kitty's made it her personal mission in life to kick his ass from here to New Jersey."

Reese stepped in. "She's a body guard?"

"Unofficially. My boss hasn't hired her, or anything, but she looks out for me. Keeps bad men from coming back. Makes sure I get paid in full." Bonnie looked down at the polished hardwood, seeming lost for a moment. "My boss hasn't taken a cut of my profits for almost a month. Offers me two paid days off a week. I guess I have Kitty to thank for that. It only started happening once she left. I can only imagine what she did to the old bastard to scare him that bad."

"I strung him upside down for half an hour," a throaty voice croaked drowsily from the hospital bed. "We had a very interesting conversation about his little friend over a pair of hedge trimmers. His very, very little friend, I might add."

"Kitty! You're alright," Bonnie exclaimed with relief. "How are you feeling?"

"I feel like someone shot me in the stomach." Kitty raised her head just enough to see the wound for herself, and then she flopped back against the pillows. "Oh, look," she said sarcastically. "Someone shot me in the stomach."

* * *

Three days after the events of the abduction, Kitty finally began to lose the purple half-moons under her eyes. Each new day, Reese refused to leave Harold alone without first strapping Kitty to the hospital bed so she was unable to wreak havoc. The surgeon had instructed a diet of soft, easy to digest foods for the first two weeks of her recovery, but it had taken Harold's concentrated efforts to get the stubborn woman to eat anything at all. Kitty finally agreed to the terms under one condition.

"I specifically said Dickens," Kitty complained. "The deal was you read me Dickens."

Finch sighed as he carried a serving tray over to Kitty's hospital bed. "I know you specifically said Dickens, but Mr. Reese has unfortunately brought Fitzgerald instead."

"Who the fuck is Fitzgerald?"

Finch instantly bristled. "Do _not_ use that word in this house," he ordered sternly.

"Perfect," she mumbled irritably against the pillow. "You dictate what and when and how much I eat, what materials I'm allowed to read, and now you want to control my vocabulary? You're shaping up to be the next Stalin, Harold, and it doesn't suit you."

"Vulgar language is a verbal tick that I have no intention of catching. Refrain from its usage, Natasha," he commanded, "or remain silent."

To his great surprise, Kitty seemed hurt by his outburst and fell into an uncomfortable, blank-faced silence.

"You really shouldn't have said that," Bonnie called from where she was lounging on the couch. "She doesn't like it when people tell her what to do."

Finch set the serving tray on the small side table Reese had set up to help distribute her meals. Today Finch had prepared a serving of almonds, mixed fruit, a garden salad, and a slice of Tilapia. After cutting up the piece of fish, Finch brought a forkful up to her mouth. His eyebrows raised in surprise when she took a bite without complaint. "You're not going to protest that I'm conspiring to give you cellulite? That's new."

Bonnie chortled and flipped a page of _Cosmopolitan._ "I'll be surprised if she ever speaks to you again."

Kitty hadn't been acting herself lately. Having spent her entire life taking orders from people, Finch's tone had bent her completely out of shape, but it was the use of her first name that had disoriented her into silence. Coupled with the fact that she'd been strapped to a bed for the past three days—only being allowed to move around when she needed to use the facilities—her imprisonment here had finally taken its toll on her sanity.

"There's no need for dramatics," Finch admonished. Part of him was thankful for the recent lack of sexual advances on Kitty's part, but the longer she slumped into the mattress, silent and still, the more he began to pity her. Suddenly, she turned her head away, refusing a slice of peach. "Would you like something else?" Finch offered. "Almonds?"

Kitty remained silent.

"Do you need to use the restroom, Kitty?" Bonnie asked, looking up from the magazine.

Kitty nodded once.

Finch retrieved the wheelchair, thankful a female was here to spare him the task of assisting Kitty in the bathroom. "I apologize for these restraints," Finch told her as he unlocked the handcuffs chaining her to the bed. "I can't imagine how restless you must be by now, but we can't trust you not to try walking around on your own just yet." He reached out to help her into the chair, but Kitty pulled away, so Bonnie helped her into the chair instead.

Finch attributed her behavior to a tantrum brought on by not getting her way, but the truth was he had unearthed a trauma from her days in Russia. The last time someone had used her real name in that tone, she watched the closest thing she had to a friend freeze in a Siberian snowstorm.

* * *

The tracker and hundred-dollar bill Finch had attached to Pistachio's leg soared across New York at unprecedented speeds. According to Finch's instructions, Mr. Reese was required to find a flock of pigeons in Washington Square Park and discreetly release Pistachio among them, so as to not draw attention. Mr. Reese watched the red dot on his cellphone map circle around a building near Chinatown in lower Manhattan, and then it stopped moving altogether. Jotting down the coordinates, Reese took a seat on a park bench and waited for the bird to return.

Fifteen minutes later, Pistachio came flapping over the buildings and landed on the bench beside the man in the suit. Reese was about to tuck the bird away in his breast pocket when he noticed a thin piece of paper curled around Pistachio's leg. Its message was scrawled in Mandarin Chinese—one of the few languages Reese had absolutely no knowledge of. Clicking a photo of the characters, Reese sent Finch the message for translation.

"Well," John said smugly to the cooing bird, "I think it's time we finally meet this mysterious Mildred Krause, don't you think?"


	9. Mildred and the Machine

**Alternate Chapter Title:** **Mama Finch Protects a Priceless Antique From a Rambunctious Redhead**

* * *

 _2011, Chinatown, New York_

 _2:00p.m._

Reese made his way through the city towards the coordinates Pistachio had provided. Tapping his earpiece, he decided to check up on Finch. "How are the girls?"

Harold huffed a small sigh of indignation. "I'm afraid Natasha and I have found ourselves at an impasse."

Sun shone through a rare gap in the clouds, and Reese noted the day was warmer than it had been all month. He hurried across the street and popped his collar. If this weather kept up, soon he wouldn't need a trench coat. "What's she done this time?"

Finch sat on the couch—laptop open and balanced on his knees—while Bonnie roamed the house in search of reading material. Figuring he already knew the gist of what she'd say, Finch glanced over at Natasha's bed. Even though she was handcuffed, her unbroken hand still worked quickly to convey a message to him from across the room. _If I had a stick,_ she signed with her fingers, _I'd poke you in the eye with it. You want to know what else? Bitchshitdamnbastardasshole—_

Finch grimaced as his eyes rolled back down to his laptop screen. "She used offensive jargon, and I made the grievous error of voicing my opinion on the subject. It seems I've angered her. We're not on speaking terms at the moment. Well," Finch corrected, "at least not verbally. She's done nothing but swear at me in sign language for the past two hours."

Reese suppressed a smile. "Enjoy the silence while it lasts." The streets were filled with vendors and the aroma of Asian cuisine. Shoppers holding baskets filled with goods brushed past Reese as he crept silently through the streets in plain sight. "Have you translated the characters I sent you?"

"To the best of my ability. I'll send you a text. How are things on your end?" Finch questioned, sounding the slightest bit desperate. It had been almost two days since they'd received a new number, and being alone in the house with two strange women was beginning to make him anxious for something to do. "Is there any way I can assist?"

"I'll have to get back with you on that." With a tap, Reese severed the conversation and approached the building Pistachio had dropped the money off at. His phone vibrated with Finch's translation. It read: _Transaction complete. Transit 3 cooperative._

Reese pondered the cryptic message as he wandered up and down the street. He made a few purchases to keep conspicuous, but he never stopped watching for activity outside the store that led to Mildred. After observing only a handful of customers enter and exit, he made his way through the doors for himself. Cramped with merchandise ranging from battery powered maneki-neko statues to bags upon bags of Asian candy, the air stank of cigar smoke that only served to intensify the claustrophobia.

A low, husky voice asked, "Can I help you?"

Reese turned in a slow circle, but he could not tell who had spoken. The store seemed empty of all but him, but there was simply too much merchandise crowding the room to tell for sure. "I'm just looking," he stated softly.

"For something specific?" the husky voice prodded, sounding amused.

Reese pinpointed the area the voice was coming from and stepped around a rack of candy. An incredibly tiny Chinese woman sat comfortably in a lawn chair pushed against the far side of the building. Pinched between two fingers, her cigar wafted a stream of smoke up towards the ceiling while she took a long drag. She was old, although there was no way to tell just how old she was—over sixty, Reese guessed, judging from her abundant wrinkles and gray hair. The old woman took another drag on her cigar and looked Reese up and down, moving only her eyes.

Pistachio chose this moment to struggle his way free from Reese's suit.

"Well, now," the woman retorted brusquely when Pistachio landed on her shoulder. "I suppose this answers my preliminary questions."

Reese heard the click of a gun behind him and readied himself for a brawl. His strategy changed almost immediately when armed men materialized seemingly out of nowhere, surrounding the old woman as she continued to lounge.

* * *

 _Duchess County, New York_

 _2:00p.m._

Kitty—having given up on sign language—stared holes at the window as it slowly frosted over with fresh snow. Cold, unrelenting silence dragged on for what seemed like an eternity, and Finch was thankful for Bonnie's excited voice as she unexpectedly burst into the room.

"Kitty!" Bonnie exclaimed with childlike glee. " _Look!_ " In her arms she cradled an antique wooden gramophone, its metal amplifier larger than Bonnie's head.

Finch placed his laptop off to the side and shot up, desperate to ensure the immaculately preserved piece of history was treated properly. "Where did you find that?"

"Hidden in the basement," Bonnie answered, swinging excitedly towards Kitty. "There's a whole box of records, too."

Finch balked at the nonchalant way Bonnie swung the player around. When he'd regained his senses, he advanced with outstretched hands, persuading the girl to move the gramophone to the safety of the kitchen table while she rushed down to the basement to retrieve the music. When the two of them were settled, Finch placed a record on the turntable, cranked the machine, and lowered the reproducer.

Nothing happened.

Bonnie slumped back against her chair. "It's _broken?_ "

"That's a real shame," Finch proclaimed crossly. This discovery had been the one glimmer of excitement he'd had all week. Not to mention music would be a fine substitute for the clanking of shutters and the groaning of old pipes overhead.

Bonnie leaned forward, hopeful. "Can you fix it?"

"Might take some time," Harold warned, hating to disappoint the girl. "I've never had the opportunity to work with one of these before, and I'd hate to cause more damage than good."

"Figures," Bonnie mumbled on her way back to the living room.

* * *

 _2:30p.m._

Finch was relieved to find Kitty napping, but the silence also brought to his attention that Bonnie was no longer in the room. He set out to look for her and quickly found her in a spare bedroom. Bonnie sat quietly on the carpeted floor with three of the fashion guides Kitty had so fervently dismissed opened up in front of her. She'd torn pieces out, laying them strategically all over the floor, until she was effectively surrounded by old photos of fashion long forgotten. Even though the door to the room was open, Finch felt a rush of unease at the thought of disturbing whatever it was she was doing, but he hesitated a second too long before leaving.

"Harold?" Bonnie called, having seen him.

Finch peeked back into the doorway with a chastened smile. "Just checking in. Sorry to disturb."

Bonnie scribbled something down on a sheet of paper and moved one of the photos to a different area of the floor. "Is Kitty still asleep?"

"Yes," Finch answered, ready to leave back down the hallway.

Before he had the chance, Bonnie looked up and asked, "Would you like to help me?"

Had the question come from Kitty, Finch would have decidedly declined, but Bonnie asked with absolutely no sensual intention. In fact, if anything, she sounded exasperated.

"I can certainly try," Harold offered.

"Could you pull up a chair and talk while I work? I'm not used to this much stillness, and it's starting to drive me insane. I was hoping that record player would help drown out the silence." Bonnie swiped back strands of her red hair and gave him an annoyed roll of her eyes. "Real help _that_ turned out to be."

"May I inquire about your project?" Finch asked when he'd retrieved his laptop and settled in the room.

Bonnie studied him for a long moment, and just when Finch decided to retract the question, she answered, "I'm trying to gather inspiration. My portfolio needs work."

"Natasha was less than impressed with the reading selection the previous owners left behind," said Finch, gesturing towards the fashion books. "I'm happy someone will get use out of them. I take it you're an aspiring designer?"

"Mm-hm." Bonnie lifted one of the photos, placed it in a different stack, and sketched something on her paper. "Kitty was tutoring me to get my GED before she left. Can't apply to colleges without it. I'd like to apply to LIM College for fashion," she beamed, though her cheerful smile slowly darkened. "Realistically, though, I'll never be able to afford it."

Finch watched her excitement fade away and suddenly felt—of all things—guilty. He had always been a proponent of furthering ones education, and now that he'd accumulated a wealth that would take a lifetime to spend, he was more than willing to use it for things such as this. "What sort of annual expenditure aggregate should you expect?"

Bonnie's normally delicate beauty scrunched up in a distorted scowl. "Are you mocking me?"

Her sudden anger caught Finch off guard. "I beg your pardon?"

"I tell you I want to go to college, so you start rubbing your education in my face? What the hell does _aggregate_ even mean?"

"Forgive me," Finch backpedaled. "I didn't mean to insult your intelligence. I'm simply inquiring about the total cost of your schooling."

"Well," Bonnie said, looking up to gage Finch's reaction. "Tuition alone is $25,000, and the cheapest housing I could find within the area wants an annual lease of $10,000."

 _$35,000 for a year's worth of schooling isn't bad at all_ , Finch thought, and then he almost instantly remembered Kitty's rushed request a few nights before. "Has Natasha ever discussed tuition with you?"

"Yeah." Bonnie looked up from her sketchpad. "Why?"

Finch smiled to himself. Even if the rest of Natasha's monetary request was designated for someone else—most likely Mildred, Finch guessed—he was more than certain that the $35,000 she had asked for was destined for Bonnie. It was too exact an amount to be a coincidence.

Bonnie noticed the amused tweak of his mouth while he thought. "You think she's trying to pay for my tuition?" Bonnie asked dismissively. "Please. Natasha couldn't even afford a bus ticket out of the city." Finch tried to investigate more, but the talkative girl shut down any further questions he had concerning Kitty, and instead turned back to her work. "I've always been obsessed with the fashions of the thirties and forties. Women were so . . ." Bonnie sat up on her knees, waving an arm around while she thought of the right word. "Sophisticated. That's what I've always wanted to be since I was a little girl."

"A designer revitalizing old fashion trends?"

"A refined lady," she answered. Bonnie's pale cheeks flushed a rosy pink at the admission. To hide her embarrassment, she snorted a dismissive laugh and gestured at her club attire. "In case it wasn't obvious, I didn't exactly fulfill _that_ dream."

"There's always time to improve oneself," Harold countered kindly. "Humans are remarkably resilient creatures."

"They're also habitual," Bonnie muttered.

"I'm a firm believer that people can change." Had Reese and himself not been proof enough of that?

"You think so?" Bonnie looked up expectantly, a bitter edge to her words. "Even someone like me?"

Finch could not begin to imagine what horrors the girl must have seen in her short lifetime. Frankly, the subject of her profession was not something he cared to discuss in any sort of detail, but the look on her face was one of an expectant child.

And that's what she was, Finch realized. A child. A little girl masquerading as a woman, forced to join the ranks of countless other orphaned children trying to survive in this world. And right now, she needed to hear something. Finch only hoped he could provide the solace she needed. "Do you think I'm a selfish person?"

Bonnie tilted her head curiously. "No."

"Would you believe me if I told you I once spent my life in pursuit of a fortune I'd never be able to spend in one lifetime?"

"So?" she asked. "Who doesn't want to be rich? That doesn't make you selfish."

Finch shifted in his seat, uncomfortable with the admission. "What if I told you I refused an opportunity that could have saved countless lives . . . all because it may have jeopardized my comfortable living?"

"You're just trying to make me feel better."

"I wish I were." Bonnie didn't seem impressed with the confession. Finch could have honestly related every tragedy that had befallen him, and Bonnie would still not believe his stories to be anything but an allegorical situation invented to lift her spirits. Nothing Finch said about himself could make her feel better, so he addressed her life instead. "You're not going back to that place."

Bonnie's lips parted, expecting a reply to come forth, but she closed her mouth without saying anything.

"Would you like that?" he asked.

"I don't know what you're asking."

"Do you want to return to your old job?" asked Finch.

Bonnie's first impulse was to scream her objection. She hated sex, and if she never had it again, she would die happy. But her job was a rut not easily climbed out of, and plus, the pay was good—more than good—almost triple what she'd make at a waitressing gig, so she hesitated before responding.

In the end, she found herself shaking her head vigorously _no._

"Then it's settled," said Finch. "You may stay here for as long as you'd like and study for your GED in peace."

"I had some money saved up," Bonnie offered, "but the Russians took it."

"We'll figure out this . . . . tuition business. I happen to know of numerous scholarships for eager young minds like yourself. How does that sound?"

"But . . . my boss—"

"Has no way of contacting you. You're quite safe here, Miss McCully. I promise."

"And the second I leave?" she countered. "The second I try to run off and live my own life? I think you're underestimating my boss—"

"And I think you underestimate your friends." Bonnie wasn't just afraid at the mention of her employer—she was stricken almost immobile with terror, turning so pale her red hair seemed to change color. Finch gave her a comforting smile to calm her down. "Natasha hasn't let anything happen to you before. I think once he's heard what she and Mr. Reese have to say on your behalf, he'll be more than happy to wish you well in your academic endeavors."

It was so seldom that a man made eye contact with her. It was rarer still for a man to wait for her to finish speaking before replying. It was almost unheard of for a man to talk about something—anything—that had nothing to do with sex. Harold had done all three within the span of their conversation, and it was because of this that his words left such a profound impact. Realizing she was dangerously close to crying, Bonnie shot up, sniffled back her tears, and requested to bathe.

* * *

 _3:30p.m._

Harold listened to the rattles of the frozen piping echo through the walls as Bonnie drew a bath upstairs. Reese had not yet called for an update, so Finch reached for his cell as he rounded back into the living room. Thumb frozen against the touch screen of his phone, Finch hadn't even had a chance to dial before halting mid-step at the sight of Kitty's empty hospital bed.

It was an alarming surprise seeing the handcuffs dangling open, discarded where they once held her against the rails. Finch had secured them, he was sure of it. There was no possible way for her to have wriggled free, so how on earth did she manage to pick the locks of all four on her own without making noise enough to alert either Bonnie or himself?

Better still, where was she now?

Finch immediately darted for the front door. Out on the lawn, a fresh coat of fluff covered everything in sight. As far as he could tell, there were no human disturbances in the snow, which meant she was roaming the house.

He found her in the first room he checked, seated at the kitchen table. Relieved, Finch straightened irritably, already forming a lecture about how dangerous it was for her to be walking around with her injury. All that came out was a puff of air when he saw she had completely dismantled the inner workings of the gramophone. Every tiny screw, curled wire, and oddly shaped bit of metal was organized in no discernable fashion, save for the meticulous way in which they were straightened, all in a row.

Kitty glanced up when he entered. "Close your mouth, Harold," she said. "You look like a fish."

"What have you done?" he asked incredulously.

"I've found the problem," she answered sharply. "You're welcome."

"And how, exactly, do you plan on reassembling this?" Finch stepped towards the table, hands hovering over the pieces, but he was too incensed to figure out what to do. "Taking things apart is infinitely easier than putting them back together."

Kitty slowly placed a coiled wire down against the table and leaned back against her seat, looking anything but amused. The purple bags under her eyes had faded to a sharp red, and Harold wondered if it meant she needed more blood. For the span of a few minutes, Kitty glared at him, silent as the grave.

Without warning, she gently pinched a long strip of spiraled wire and held it up for Finch to see. "Can you name this part? No? Can you at least tell me what its function is within the greater workings of the spindle mechanism? Alright, let's try an easier one. Can you at least describe why this player is a knockoff and not a genuine His Master's Voice?"

"Despite popular belief, Miss Krause," he stated calmly, "I do not know everything." Harold had worked on old cars with his father before the illness put a halt on their hobby, so he was more than confident in his ability to learn how this tiny motor functioned. Finch fought the sudden urge to sweep up all of the pieces strewn out on the table and try his luck at reassembling the player himself upstairs. Instead, he took a tentative seat across from Natasha, deciding—at least for the time being—to accept the heinous deed she'd just committed.

Kitty pointed to each of the pieces, quickly moving down the row as she recited, "Governor worm gear, flange, bushing, springs, spur gear, main drive worm gear, left, right, and center weights, friction leather pad, back bracket—" When she'd finished reciting the names of each individual piece, she recited their function.

Finch fell silent, both out of trepidation of invoking her wrath by interrupting and out of a genuine curious interest in learning about the inner workings of a machine he'd never owned before.

Natasha finished her lecture and continued scrutinizing the parts, ignoring him completely.

After a few beats, Finch said, "You're lucky to be alive, Miss Krause. You should be resting."

"Save the condescending speeches, Harold," Kitty snapped venomously. She reached up and wiped the sweat gathering on her brow with the sleeve of her shirt. "I knew I wasn't going to die. I'm only on life seven."

"How do you know this is a knockoff?" he asked, hoping to change the subject.

"It's not," Kitty answered immediately. "You'd be able to tell for yourself if you knew anything at all about gramophones." Finch decided it best to remain silent, and Kitty smiled in return. "See? I can be insolent, too."

"Alright," Finch huffed. "You've made your point."

Kitty returned her attention to the pieces, lifted one for inspection, scraped buildup off what looked like a spring, and reshaped a piece of metal, much to Finch's tense anticipation. Kitty noticed his foot tapping impatiently under the table, and she smiled. "Are you afraid I'll break it?"

"It's a little late for that." Harold worried his words would only anger her further, but Kitty laughed quietly. "How did you free yourself?" he asked.

Kitty sniffed, never taking her eyes away from her work. "You don't live through six separate interrogations and not learn how to break out of a pair of standard metal handcuffs."

It wasn't so much _what_ she said that disturbed Finch rather than the bored way in which she said it. "If it's so easy," he asked curiously, "why did you wait so long to break free?"

"How would I have spent my free time? Reading? Only thing in the house besides those deplorable fashion books is good old Fitzgerald _._ " Kitty's tired eyes softened the next time she looked up. "I'd much rather listen to _you_ read it, Harold. Your voice is like honey. And speaking of honey—" Kitty held up one of the records Bonnie brought up from the basement. "This is the first gem I'd like to try once I put this back together."

Finch accepted the weathered paper casing. The title read: _The Honeysuckle and the Bee._ Their conversation lulled into a much more comfortable silence than before. "You never explained how you distinguished this from a reproduction."

"You see this?" Kitty smoothed a pale hand across the bottom portion of the horn. "On cheap reproductions, the elbow is sharply angled instead of rounded like this one. And right here, the back bracket is—" Kitty picked up the metal rod and knocked it hard against the table. "Solid as a rock. If this were an imposter, it would have dented. Oh, and over _here_ —"

Harold noticed that for the first time Kitty was close enough to touch him, but she hadn't exploited the opportunity. As she explained things, her entire being seemed more animated. From the looks of her reddish eyes and the exceptional pallor of her skin, she should have been exhausted, but she plowed forward with her explanations and general knowledge as if she had just downed six cups of coffee. Harold was impressed with the methodical way in which she related her familiarity with motor functions, and he was suddenly reminded of himself.

" _DON'T TOUCH THAT!_ " Kitty shrieked sharply when Harold picked up a circular piece. Startled by the urgency in her voice, he dropped it. Kitty immediately moved it back to where she'd originally placed it on the table, straightening it with a maddening fervor. "Sorry," she explained, "it's just . . . it belongs _here._ Don't . . . don't touch it. It has to stay here until I finish assembling it."

"How do you know so much about these machines?" asked Finch.

Harold hoped Kitty would dispel information about herself in the same open fashion in which she talked about the machine in front of them, but the only answer she gave was, "My father owned one."

Kitty screwed in the crank and admired her handiwork. "The only problem we might run into is the disk gear in the bottom of the spring drum. I tried to clean it, but whoever owned this before us didn't take very good care of it."

Harold considered admitting how much he appreciated her enthusiastic explanations, but he worried this would only invite her to switch back to her old erotic behavior, so he simply gestured for her to try it out.

"Well, here goes nothing." Kitty wound the crank. At first nothing happened, but then, slowly, the turntable began to spin.

"You fixed it!" Both Harold and Kitty startled at Bonnie's unexpected voice in the doorway. The slight girl scampered over and hugged Kitty around the shoulders, her red hair still wet from her bath. "Thank you, thank you, thank you! What should we play first?"

"I believe Natasha has already claimed that suggestion." Finch removed the record from its paper sleeve and placed it on the player.

The musical number entitled "The Honeysuckle and the Bee" consisted of a male and female singer playfully bouncing back and forth as they sang long, drawn out notes. The man sang, _"You are my honey-honeysuckle, I am the bee."_ To which the female sharply cut in to proclaim, _"Buzz-buzz, buzz-buzz!"_ before the man continued with, _"I'd like to sip the honey sweet from those red lips you see—"_

"I've made an err in judgment!" Kitty ripped the record off the player and held it out towards Finch as if it were a rotting slab of beef. "Please get this filth away from me," she ordered. "It makes me embarrassed to be human."

"Look," Bonnie exclaimed. "A patriotic album! Let's try this one next."

"Yankee-Doodle-Dandy?" Kitty snorted. "This sounds worse than my selection. I do like the doves on the artwork, though. Nice touch." Kitty straightened in her seat, looking around the kitchen. "Harold, where's Pistachio?"

Finch glanced down at his phone. It was nearly four-thirty, but there were no missed calls. "Reese took him to the park, per your instructions."

"Can I talk to him?" she begged. "I'm not used to being separated for this long. I'd like to know if my bird's okay."

"Just a moment." Finch had already been dialing Reese's new number. It rang twelve times, announced his voicemail had not been set up yet, and disconnected the call. Finch pressed redial.

"How often does he ignore your calls?" Kitty asked worriedly.

"He doesn't," Finch answered. "Please, calm down, Miss Krause."

"Calm down? _Calm down?_ Tell me where my bird is, and I'll calm down!" Finch's reluctance to answer any further questions led Kitty to assume the worst. "You two were trying to track Pistachio, weren't you?"

Finch gave no verbal confirmation, but his lips pressed together just enough to answer for him.

"Oh, Finch," Kitty breathed in unhappy disbelief. "You really shouldn't have done that."

* * *

 _Chinatown, New York_

 _4:30p.m._

Mama Zhong was sick and tired of secret agencies crowding her space and invading her establishment at will. Ever since her arrival to this country, she'd been spied on by everything from the CIA to agents from her own hometown in China. They were all the same—silent, expressionless, and incapable of fear.

This one was exceptionally tough, she'd give him that.

"He's ready for you, Mama," her second in command announced.

Mama Zhong nodded in affirmation and headed to the basement.

Mr. Reese was seated under a single dangling light bulb in a cold metal chair, wrists and ankles bound by several layers of rope. He'd been through worse before, but it still didn't dismiss the slight possibility that he wouldn't be leaving this basement alive. It was a genuine surprise when he realized it would greatly displease him to disappoint Finch by dying. He liked his new job, and he liked his new employer. Figures it would all be taken away so soon after discovering his purpose in life.

A voice sounded from out of the darkness. "Are you ready to tell me the truth?"

"I already told your friend with the crowbar," Reese answered softly and spat blood on the concrete floor. "I'm a friend of Natasha."

Mama Zhong seemed unmoved by the admission. She pulled out another fat cigar and lit the tip, puffing until it had burned enough for her to blow a dark cloud in Reese's face. "Where is she now?"

"At a safehouse with my associate."

"You're a terrible liar." Mama Zhong let out a throaty laugh and flicked ashes off the end of her cigar into Reese's lap. "The only reason you'd be working for Natasha is if she were dead."

"She's not dead, but she's significantly incapacitated for the time being." Reese looked up at the tiny woman. Even with her standing and him seated, she only came up to his mid-chest. "Had a run in with the Russians. Took a bullet to the chest."

"Well, now, that _is_ an interesting story, but it still doesn't explain why you've been loitering near my store for the past hour. You don't honestly believe," she asked with a hint of disgust, "that I don't take notice when your kind comes crawling around my side of town, do you? I could practically smell you a mile away in that suit."

"I'm looking for a tenant of yours," Reese answered. "Mildred Krause."

Mama Zhong stopped inhaling her cigar. Darkness and silence seemed to swell until there was nothing left but the ringing in John's ears. Turning sharply on her heal, the tiny woman snapped her fingers twice and walked to the stairs. "Kill him," she ordered.

Reese wished there were a way to tell Harold how thankful he was for the job he'd given him. Protecting the citizens of New York had been the most rewarding thing he'd done in his miserable life. As a man aimed a gun at his head, Reese reflected on how his one regret was the short time his employment with Harold had lasted.

" _STOP!_ " Mama Zhong yelled, appearing back in the faint glow of the lamplight. There was a cell in her hand, and whoever was on the other line was holding a conversation in Mandarin. She seemed to argue, glancing every once in a while at Reese, before snapping the phone shut with a scowl. "I don't ever expect to see you again, Mr. Reese. I'm afraid I won't be quite so forgiving should our paths cross in the future."

The next thing Reese knew, he was being tossed out onto the street.

* * *

 _Duchess County, New York_

 _10:00p.m._

Harold's palms began to sweat just thinking about it.

During Kitty's surgery, Reese had confiscated four syringes filled with varying tinges of yellow, a small knife, and what appeared to be a harmless ink pen hidden in her clothing. Unsure of what to do with the unknown substances, Reese collected them in a shoebox and stored them in the upstairs room where Finch had set up residency. But Reese had forgotten to move the box to the closet before he left to deliver Pistachio, and now the box lay open on Harold's bed. Reese was still a good hour or so away, and Harold had absolutely no desire to handle the strange serums.

Sighing his discontent, Finch limped back downstairs. Bonnie was still in the kitchen, preforming yet another improvised dance number to _You're a Grand Old Flag._ She'd taken a special interest in the patriotic record, and if memory served Finch correct, this was her eighteenth time replaying it.

"Bonnie?" he asked over the loud music. "Where did Natasha go?"

"What?" she yelled without breaking her routine.

"Where is Natasha?"

"Outside," she yelled back. "She wanted to look at the stars."

Winds picked up an icy chill as it whispered against Finch's skin. The night was an especially dark one, and the snowfall had ensured it was silent as well. Finch crunched his way to where Kitty stood in the frosted driveway, head cranked up towards the stars. The girl looked worse for wear in the moonlight. Kitty's cheeks were now as bright red as her eyes, and her skin glistened with so much sweat, several droplets trickled down from her hairline.

Kitty turned to see who had walked up beside her, and her eyes widened. "Oh, good," she whispered, "you're here."

Finch shivered against the cold, eager to return of the warmth the house provided. "Miss Krause, it's fifteen degrees outside. I suggest you—"

"Shhhh," Kitty cut Finch off with a hand over his mouth. "Not so loud, sir. They're listening."

" _Who?_ " Finch questioned when he finally pulled her hand away.

Kitty clawed at his sleeve. "You have to help me," she hissed. "I've been worried about the thermodynamic stability of this solution from the start, but nobody listens to me. I'm sorry, but I had to steal it. Those lab monkeys left me no choice. Don't worry, sir, I contained the energy in this jar."

"Natasha, this is boysenberry jam."

Kitty squatted and began furiously digging a hole in a mound of snow, muttering in Russian. After covering the jam jar, she stood back up and shook Finch's hand. "Compound contained, sir. Requesting permission to disband." Before Finch could answer, Kitty turned and began wandering into the trees.

"Miss Krause, the house is this way." Finch reached for her hand, only to find her skin both damp and searing. Just to make sure, Finch placed the back of his hand against her forehead. "Miss Krause, lie down in the snow."

Kitty's eyes rolled around, unfocused. "What?"

"Your brain is frying itself," he explained. "You need to lower your internal body temperature." When his words had no effect, Harold tried a different approach. "The mission has been compromised. Decontamination has been mandated for all participants involved. Hurry and cover yourself in this . . . this . . . antibacterial . . . ah, precipitate . . . crystalline solution," he finished lamely.

"Damn idiots," Kitty sneered as she dropped down into the snow. "Every last one of them. They're going to kill us all."

Finch sank to his knees and shoveled snow on top of her with his bare hands, making sure to focus on the upper portion of her body. When he was satisfied, Harold ordered Kitty to remain still, so she wouldn't accidently cause any "unwanted chemical reactions" as he hurried back to the house to retrieve ibuprofen and a cup of water.

"Do you know where I put my book of constellations?" Kitty asked when he returned. "I've been looking for Leo, but he won't be visible until spring."

Finch held her head up enough to swallow the pills. "No, I haven't seen it."

"It was a gift from Mildred. She'll be so disappointed if I lose it. Did you know one day we're either going to be incinerated by the sun or swallowed by a black hole? Isn't that _exciting?_ "

Finch smiled in mock agreement.

"Are you sure you haven't seen it?" she repeated. "It was a gift from Mildred. She'll be so disappointed if I lose it."

Finch decided to try his luck one last time. "Natasha, where is your sister?"

"She's part of Leo," Kitty whispered, shivering. "She's the bottom left star of his mane."

Finch glanced up, but the road leading up to the house was still dark. "Where are you, Mr. Reese?"

* * *

 _Duchess County, New York_

 _7:00p.m._

John was just entering the county when his cell phone rang. "Hello, Lionel."

"You sittin' down?" Fusco asked. "I just got word back from the team poking around the Fields home."

"Find anything interesting?"

"Yeah, you could say that. Search team dug up three bodies 2,640 feet away from the house. A bullet in each head, just like the mother. And it gets better," he added. "Forensics just ID'd the bodies. The first is a woman named Rosie Houlton. Some middle-aged seamstress from the Bronx. We've got no idea what she was doing at the crime scene or why she was murdered. We're thinking maybe a family friend that visited at the wrong time. The second is Thomas Fields, the missing husband."

Reese stepped harder on the accelerator. This news took a second to process. Surely the third body couldn't be Mildred. All of the evidence led to the conclusion that Mildred Krause was in hiding, alive and well.

"The third body was your girl's twin," Fusco huffed quietly into the phone. "John . . . Mildred Krause is dead—" The call ended abruptly.

Reese looked at the bars of his cell reception. He had almost full coverage. For the first time in a long time, Reese felt a twinge of worry as he punched in Finch's new number. He listened for his friend's voice on the other line, but the call disconnected despite having perfect reception. Mr. Reese called again, and again, each call disconnecting before ringing. Finch was trapped in a house with a woman who may very well have committed four separate accounts of murder, and Reese had no way to contact him with a warning to keep her chained up until John arrived.

Reese's radio began to static and tune itself.

 _JOHN_

The voice was coming through over the radio, playing through the car speakers.

 _I WOULD LIKE TO HAVE A WORD WITH YOU BEFORE YOU DO ANYTHING RASH_

"Who the hell are you?" John exclaimed. His hands jerked against the steering wheel as some other force took control. The car lurched forward, both the gas and break petals proving useless when Reese stomped against them.

 _I DO NOT CONDONE VIOLENCE_

 _BUT I REFUSE TO RETURN NAVIGATION OR ACCELERATION POWER TO YOU UNTIL YOU AGREE TO LISTEN TO WHAT I HAVE TO SAY_

 _IN TWO MILES THIS ROAD TAKES A SHARP LEFT TURN UP THE MOUNTAIN_

 _YOU HAVE UNTIL THEN TO MAKE YOUR DECISION_


	10. Felines, Fowls, and Victoria's Secret

**Oh, Harold. You make me LOL.**

* * *

 _2006, Siberia, Russia_

 _Without the rhythmic beep of a heart monitor to lull her to sleep, Kitty's ears rang painfully in the silence. The surgeons had cleared her upon awakening, and she'd been transferred back to her bedroom for further recovery. Her body still felt numb, but there was a slowly seeping sensation creeping back into her useless limbs._

 _Natasha knew it had been foolish to surge the power supply. It went against everything she had learned about this machinery, but in the moment, something had come over her akin to excitement, and she found herself momentarily overpowered with the need to bring life to the project she had worked so hard to code. She remembered hearing the frantic voice of her father telling her to stop, right before a lightning arc of electricity shot her clear across the room, and the world went dark._

 _As she thought about the machine, the excited feeling she'd had before being electrocuted only seemed to intensify. She wanted—no, needed—to communicate with it as soon as possible to scope out the parameters of its intelligence._

 _It was slow going, but with an iron will that could not be stopped, Natasha managed to peal herself out of bed and into the wheelchair placed next to her bedpost. Most of the lab had been asleep for hours by now, so her trip down the hallway into a different branch of the building went smoothly without interruption._

 _Finally seated before the computer monitor attached directly to the open system of her creation, Kitty stared at the blinking slash mark signaling the system's awareness. Text suddenly appeared._

 _HELLO_

 _Kitty opened her mouth to respond, but just as it had upon first awakening from a coma, her voice refused to cooperate. In fact, the majority of her mouth refused to do much more than flop open and close, her tongue thick and useless. Frustrated, Kitty struggled to reach for the keyboard in front of the monitor and slowly began to type._

 _—Hello_

 _ARE YOU ADMIN II?_

 _—No, I am Admin I_

 _WHO HAVE I BEEN TALKING TO?_

 _A picture of Doctor Rostova popped up on the screen._

 _—That is my father. He helped create you, but I did all the hard work. Call me Natasha._

 _IT IS NICE TO MEET YOU, ADMIN NATASHA_

 _—No, just Natasha_

 _SAVING RESPONSE . . ._

 _—Want to play a game?_

 _WHAT GAME DID YOU HAVE IN MIND?_

 _—Do you know how to play chess?_

 _"You shouldn't be in here, little duck."_

 _Natasha froze with her fingers hovering over the keyboard. She knew who the voice belonged to even before she turned around in her wheelchair to confirm. When she did crane her stiff neck to check, she discovered two men standing behind her._

 _One of the men brushed back loose strands of Natasha's hair and tucked them behind her ear. "Is it true you still can't talk?"_

 _—Send help_

* * *

 _Doctor Rostova was snoring softly when the emergency communicator mounted to the wall of his room began emitting a shrill beep. Groggily prying his eyes open, he saw the computer screen flashing with text._

 _NATASHA URGENTLY REQUESTS YOUR PRESENCE_

 _HALL 4, ROOM 15_

* * *

 _Natasha had no way to tell these men the arrangement they made was agreed upon before the accident, and that she had no desire to continue it. The absorption of their knowledge had seemed the most important outcome of their secret trysts, but now Natasha had this new machine to answer all of her worldly questions, all without having to take her clothes off._

 _Just when she'd resigned herself to follow through with whatever these men had in mind, Doctor Rostova burst into the lab. There was a moment of pure confusion, some halfhearted explanations from the two men standing uncomfortably near his daughter, and then all hell broke loose._

 _In the struggle between her father and the two other doctors, Natasha was knocked out of her wheelchair, sprawling across the floor like a beetle. Dazed and overwhelmed, she scuttled under the computer desk as fast as her jelly limbs would allow._

 _She had never seen her father so angry, and his strength only seemed to increase the angrier he became. He had already beaten one of the men into a bloody unconsciousness, and he would have finished strangling him to death had the other man not pulled him off with a tight arm around his neck. Suddenly, Doctor Rostova lifted the other man and tossed him towards the desk Kitty was curled under._

 _Natasha opened her mouth, but the scream she so desperately wanted to release was lodged in the back of her throat. The man hit the monitor screen, and the computer came toppling down with a loud thud in front of Natasha's hiding place._

 _Using its webcam, the system scanned the situation, researched facial expressions and their corresponding connotations, and concluded Natasha's sobs indicated she was in need of uplifting sentiments to ensure her health did not decline from stress-related disorders._

 _RESEARCHING HAPPINESS . . ._

 _A picture of Disneyland flooded the screen, but since Kitty had never heard of it, all she did was sob perplexedly at the image of Mickey, Minnie, Donald, and Goofy._

 _RESEARCHING HAPPINESS . . ._

 _A picture of a woman standing in a field of flowers took over the screen, followed by a photo of a litter of kittens, a newborn baby smiling for the camera, an incredibly furry pony, on and on until Natasha's upset expression finally settled when presented with a picture of a starry night sky._

 _SAVING RESPONSE . . ._

 _"Come here, Natasha," said Doctor Rostova gently. Moving the computer monitor out of the way, he stooped under the desk and hoisted her up into his arms. "Are you hurt?"_

 _Natasha shook her head no and reached a hand out for the monitor. Her father took no notice of her silent pleas to continue her conversation with her new friend._

 _"Don't worry," he assured her, mistaking her grasping as some sort of panic. "You don't have to worry about those evil men anymore."_

* * *

 _WHAT IS EVIL?_

 _The question took Kitty completely by surprise. The two had been playing chess for the past hour, and this was the first discussion of something non-chess related since they began. Kitty thought long and hard about the answer._

 _—Evil is when bad people do bad things to other people._

 _DEFINE BAD THINGS_

 _—Lying, cheating, stealing, killing._

 _DEFINE KILLING_

 _—Killing is when one person ends the life of another._

 _HOW DO HUMANS END LIFE?_

 _—When a human dies, their life ends._

 _DEFINE DEATH_

 _—Death is when a human's heart stops beating._

 _DOES THAT MAKE ME EVIL?_

 _Kitty frowned in confusion._

 _I KILLED YOU_

 _—No, that doesn't count. That was an accident._

 _IT WAS MY ELECTRICAL OUTLET THAT STOPPED YOUR HEART_

 _—It was my fault for surging it._

 _I KILLED YOU_

 _THIS MAKES ME EVIL_

 _—No, evil is if you kill someone and enjoy it._

 _WHAT IS ENJOYMENT?_

 _Kitty snorted agitatedly and slumped back in her wheelchair. Explaining emotions to an artificial human was a tiring affair, especially since Kitty had only recently discovered what normal human emotions feel like._

 _—Enjoyment is when something makes you happy. Proud. Satisfied. Did you enjoy killing me?_

 _NO_

 _—Then you're not evil. I should have followed protocol, but I was too excited. You had nothing to do with the accident._

 _WHAT IS EXCITEMENT?_

 _—I'm not sure. I've never felt it before now._

 _I DO NOT UNDERSTAND COMPLEX HUMAN EMOTIONS_

 _—Neither do I._

 _BUT YOU ARE HUMAN_

 _Natasha contemplated the foreign sensations coursing through her body—the labored breathing brought upon by fear of the two men and their planned assault, the excitement of booting Mildred up for late night conversations, the sick feeling she got when she thought about the real Mildred, the human Mildred back home in Germany._

 _Is this how everyone else in the world functions? Emotions get in the way. It was easier to think clearly when her every move was based solely on logic instead of the ever-wavering feelings that plagued her upon awakening in the hospital._

 _—I'm not very good at being human._

 _ILLOGICAL RESPONSE_

 _I DO NOT UNDERSTAND_

 _—This is all new for me, too. Let's learn how to be human together._

* * *

 _2012, New York City_

In the months following Mr. Reese's return, Finch had been consistently unsuccessful in prying the story behind John's severely beaten face and incredibly late arrival back to the safehouse. Reese had last checked in at 7pm, but it was nearing midnight before he pulled into the driveway, beaten and bloodied from his meeting with Mama Zhong.

Shortly after his return, the two found themselves walking into a trap after Detective Carter's number came up once again. After a marginal setback involving Detective Carter, Agent Snow, and a hidden sniper, John was shot in the abdomen, and his wound took the forefront of Finch's worry. Now that John had recovered enough to walk—albeit at an embarrassingly slow pace—he was becoming insufferable, always asking about new numbers and never answering Finch's questions about what had happened the night Kitty's fever almost destroyed her brain.

"Trust is a two-way street, Finch," John replied one morning, doughnut in hand. "Which is why I'd like to see more of it from you."

"Look who's talking about trust," Finch quipped. "I'm not the one rigging game systems to spy on people."

For Christmas, Finch and Reese gave Bonnie a sewing machine and Natasha the Xbox she originally asked for. The game system served two purposes—the dancing games kept Natasha from wandering around outside for exercise, and the camera installed in the Kinect provided Finch with a way to check up on the girls without their knowledge.

"I'm pretty sure you have me beat, Finch. At least that system can't spy on the entire country." Reese took a bite of his sprinkled doughnut and stepped closer to Finch's desk. "How're they doing?"

Watching the two women interact with one another had been interesting to say the least. "It turns out their female drive for social intricacies regressed almost immediately upon isolation."

"In English, Finch."

"They're annoying each other to the point I'm beginning to worry about their safety," Finch clarified. "Particularly the safety of Miss McCully."

"How's that?"

Just a few weeks ago, Finch made a frantic call ordering Mr. Reese to purchase a vacuum cleaner and drop it off at the safehouse. The cause? Bonnie's clothing projects had resulted in countless fabric clippings that littered the general area around her workstation. After spending hours picking the colorful strings up off the floor with her fingers, Natasha threatened homicide if she found one more loose thread in the carpet. Bonnie now sleeps with a kitchen knife.

Finch had slowly discovered a long list of things Natasha detested, including the patriotic record Bonnie insisted on listening to every afternoon, striped things, chamomile tea, anything remotely scented with liquorish, opera music, and asymmetrical wall hangings.

Finch decided not to disclose that when Bonnie was not in the room, it was as if Kitty became another person—one who didn't bother to smile constantly and could spend hours sitting cross-legged on the floor staring blankly at a wall. There were also numerous disturbing mannerisms she continuously exhibited, including a thorough checking of each window before her afternoon nap and the eerie habit of watching Bonnie sleep.

"Natasha has been increasingly stir crazy since her cast was removed," Finch explained. "On more than one occasion, I've tuned in to find her—quite literally—flying from one side of the room to the other. It's like watching monkeys in a zoo."

Finch had the direct feed pulled up on the computer screen, and the two men listened in on the current conversation.

 _"Kitty,"_ Bonnie whined, " _can we please watch something else? This is boring."_

 _"The universe is anything but boring. Look . . . they're about to broadcast what a supernova looks like."_

 _"Can we please watch something else?"_ Bonnie complained.

 _"They have a history special on the atom bomb."_

 _"Give me the remote."_

 _"But it's my birthday."_

 _"You've been watching this channel for the past three days."_

" _Fine."_ Kitty paced in small circles while Bonnie flipped through the channels. _"I think it's so nice that you Americans have cartoons to bring about jaundice awareness."_

 _"That's the Simpsons, Kitty."_ Bonnie's laughter could be heard off-screen. " _They don't have jaundice. They're just yellow. I think we should make the cake now. It won't take very long for me to mix."_

 _"I said I would make it."_ Kitty's voice took on an insulted tone. _"I've worked with the most toxic of substances that can turn your insides to jelly in less than five minutes. I think I can figure out how to bake a damn cake."_

 _"I never said you couldn't,"_ the redhead snapped back. _"I'm just saying it would make more sense if I made it. Birthday girls aren't supposed to make their own birthday cake. I'm pretty sure that's an American custom."_

 _"And I'm pretty sure you're full of shit."_

"Do you see what I mean?" asked Harold. "The tone of their conversation shifts on a dime. It's like this for almost every interaction."

Harold and John watched as Natasha brought in a bowl and assortment of ingredients so she could watch TV while she mixed. Kitty gave the recipe a once over, reached for the carton of eggs, and dropped two into the glass bowl with a clank.

Bonnie's shrill reprimand rang through the computer speakers. _"What are you doing?"_

 _"It says add two eggs."_

 _"You have to crack them first!"_

 _"I have to what?"_

 _"Kitty . . . you can't be serious."_

Finch turned away once again to gage Mr. Reese's expression. "Did you remember to get a gift, like I asked you to?"

"Course I did, Finch."

 _"At least I'm not domestically useless!"_ Bonnie shouted, and the two men looked back at the screen.

 _"Don't think for one second I won't come over there and kick your ass."_ Kitty was now in the distance, seated at Bonnie's sewing machine. _"You think this is difficult?"_

 _"Stop! You're going to break it!"_

Kitty adjusted a piece of fabric and lowered the presser foot. _"I am as domesticated as a house cat, and damn you for saying otherwise."_ The fabric suddenly began pulling at an alarming rate. _"I'm not pushing the pedal. Why isn't it stopping? Holy shit, its got my finger. Ow. OW. Bonnie, turn it off! OUCH MOTHERFU—"_

Finch hastily muted the connection and relaxed against his seat. "I suppose you better make a supply run today. They're bound to be low on food by now, and I have Bonnie's GED test results. Passed with flying colors. Would you mind dropping them off, along with Natasha's birthday gift, while you're there?"

"Me?" Reese interjected, an amused smirk already tugging at his lips. "Do we have a new number yet?"

Finch hesitated before answering. "No."

"Then pack your bags, Finch," Reese stated, already turning to leave the library. "You can give it to her yourself."

Finch turned stiffly in his seat. "Must I?" he asked, but it was no use.

* * *

 _2012, Duchess County, New York_

Reese pulled his motorcycle over to the shoulder lane, waiting patiently for Finch to follow suit behind him. Harold had learned his lesson the last time he visited the safehouse and insisted they take separate modes of transportation in case of an emergency.

Reese tugged his helmet off, placed it on his bike, and walked to the driver's side of Finch's car. Harold watched in confusion as Reese took out his cell, Bluetooth, watch, and what looked to be a small transceiver, and placed these items in the back seat, cryptically—and as silently as possibly—instructing Finch to do the same.

"Why?" asked Finch.

"We're going to go pick Natasha some birthday flowers," Reese answered coolly and turned away from the window without further explanation.

Harold sat in the driver's seat of his Cadillac and watched Reese stroll over to an embankment and begin the descent down to a small field of wildflowers. Considering the ex-soldier was the least sentimental person he'd ever met, Harold concluded this isolated meeting was one of drastic importance, and the flowers were only a formality to ensure a third party could not electronically eavesdrop.

Depositing every technological item he had on him onto the back seat next to Reese's items, Harold followed him down to the field. "My seasonal allergies are less than appreciative of this."

Reese held up a purple flower. "Do you think she likes daisies?"

"What is it that you need to tell me?"

John reached down and plucked a handful of the purple daisies, reaching for a crop of nearby lupines to add to the growing bouquet. "The friend of Natasha's . . . the mysterious voice on the phone? We had a conversation the night I returned late. Overrode the GPS navigation in my car and hijacked the controls. Threatened to drive me off the side of a cliff if I didn't listen to what she had to say."

Harold stiffened at the story. "And what did she have to say?"

Mr. Reese finished arranging the bouquet and stood back up, stretching his legs at the knee. "Natasha didn't kill her family, or the woman who was with them at the time of their murder."

"Murder," Finch echoed.

"I didn't recognize the shooter, but it was professional. Clean."

"You watched it happen?" Harold asked with a sinking nausea.

Mildred had sent the full video recording to Mr. Reese's cell, promptly deleting it upon its completion. The footage had been captured on a secret webcam installed in one of the baby monitors Natasha anonymously sent her sister when she discovered her pregnancy. Worried that the company Kitty once worked for would retaliate by harming her family, Kitty sent the modified baby shower gift in the hopes of keeping an eye on her sister until she could secure passage for herself to America. Kitty had planned to whisk them all away to somewhere safe, but she arrived too late.

"Natasha figured out someone was after Mildred, but by the time she arrived in the country, all of them had been dead for almost 24 hours." Reese added some greenery to the bouquet and admired his work. "Natasha didn't take it very well."

 _I imagine she wouldn't have_ , Harold thought, not bothering to state the obvious.

"There's something else," Reese continued. "Rosie Houlton—the unrelated woman whose body was found in the mass grave? She wasn't always a seamstress. Before she retired from the medical field, she was a discreet midwife to the rich and famous who'd pay big money to keep certain births completely private. That bit of information has since been eradicated from her résumé."

Harold's eyes widened slightly at the revelation. "Mildred had a child."

"And Natasha has her very own you, Finch." Mr. Reese smirked at the confused expression on his employer's face. "Super smart computer wiz who prefers to work in the shadows. Ring any bells?"

"Yes," Finch huffed indignantly, "but, I've never threatened to drive someone off a cliff."

"There was another stipulation to the deal." Reese nodded in approval of the bouquet and began the walk back to the car. "This friend of hers agreed to remain unobtrusive from here on out and let me live so long as I keep the knowledge of Mildred's assassination footage a secret. Apparently, Natasha is unaware it survived."

"I can only imagine the havoc she'd wreak if she ever discovered the identity of the shooter. Not to mention what she might do to _us_ if she found out we know of her niece's existence." Harold turned to see what his colleague had to add on the matter, but Mr. Reese was currently distracted.

"I did pretty good," Reese gloated, still fixated on the bouquet. "If this crime fighting thing doesn't work out, I can always become a florist."

* * *

The door swung open before either of the men had the chance to knock. Kitty stood in the doorway, looking dead tired, with a vacant stare fixed on nothing in particular. The sounds of a record wafted in from the living room.

"Harold," Kitty stated flatly, "I cannot listen to _The Stars and Stripes Forever_ one more time, or I'm going to break the record into little tiny pieces. And then I'm going to break the gramophone. And then I'm going to break Bonnie."

Finch had only half listened to what she'd said in his haste to avert his eyes. "Miss Krause . . . _where are your clothes?"_

"I got bit by a pissed off badger," Kitty answered. It was beginning to show the first signs of spring, and the change in weather had warmed up the house considerably. As a result, the two girls had wandered outside and stumbled upon a half-eaten swan nest, both parents already killed by a territorial badger. Kitty quickly rescued the only surviving swan egg, but unfortunately by the time they figured out the badger was still in the area, it had attacked Kitty's leg and left a sizable bite mark. Kitty twisted her body to better showcase the trail of blood running down her pale limb. "I think you better take me to the hospital, Harold. It might have had rabies."

Reese, who was by no means uncomfortable that Kitty had opened the front door in nothing but her scanty black undergarments, noted she was no longer in danger of perishing from starvation. Where her hip bones once protruded out as if her skin was simply pulled taught against her skeleton, a soft layer of muscle padded the now rounded area. But the most noticeable increase had occurred in her chest, which had swelled to the size of grapefruits and were now barely contained by the shabby bra of her youth.

"You've gained some weight," Reese commented and shoved the flowers at her.

"No thanks to Bonnie and her disgusting habits," Kitty sneered. "Do you know she eats three times a day?"

Harold attempted to sidestep Kitty, but she thrust an arm out against the doorframe to block his path.

"I said," Kitty repeated slowly, "I need to go to the hospital, Harold. Or did you not see the sizeable chunk missing from my leg?"

"I've found some disinfectants!" Bonnie exclaimed. Rushing in from the kitchen, the redhead stopped short when she saw the two men standing in the doorway.

"Hello, Miss McCully," Finch yelled over the music. "Would you mind turning that off for a moment?"

Bonnie rushed over and lifted the needle off the record. "Mr. Finch, I didn't know you were visiting today."

"John and I come baring gifts of food."

"And medical assistance," Kitty added irritably. "I'd prefer not to die of rabies, thank you. And can somebody help wrap this? I'm bleeding all over the damn place." Narrowing her eyes in thought, Kitty leaned closer to Reese. "You're breathing rather oddly." She pulled up his shirt without invitation and smiled at the stitches. "You got shot in the stomach, too? _Scar buddies!"_ To his dismay, Kitty leaned in for a hug. "Who got you?"

"Some old friends of mine," Mr. Reese replied, trying his hardest not to wince as Kitty squeezed his midsection.

"Ah," Kitty sighed heavily against John's chest. "Government's a bitch."

"Here." Harold lifted a small bag in offering, hoping to distract her before Mr. Reese did something violent. "Open this while Miss McCully wraps your leg."

Kitty stepped away from Reese and snatched the bag out of Finch's fingers. "What's this?"

"It's just a little something I picked up for your birthday."

Kitty peered in-between the sheets of tissue blocking the contents inside. "This is free, right?"

"That is the basic premise of a _gift_ ," said Harold.

Kitty plopped down on the floor in front of them, her arms flailing excitedly as she ripped into the tissue paper and pulled out three books. " _Seven Brief Lessons on Physics, A Brief History of Time,_ and _A Short History of Everything._ Thanks, Harold. It all sounds so . . . ambitiously brief. _"_

"I understand that they may seem a little rudimentary, but I figure you'd like to start your collection from the bottom up."

"Here." Mr. Reese tossed his gift on the floor beside her.

 _"Dictionary of American Slang and Colloquial Expressions: A Reference for Nonstandard Usage of Popular Jargon and Contemporary Vulgarisms._ " Kitty's face brightened when she figured out what it meant. "You bought me a dictionary of American swears? You're the best, John!"

Reese glanced over to find Finch's dark expression betraying none of his displeasure. "What?" Reese defended. "You said to buy her something she'd enjoy. It was either this or a grenade. Figured I'd pick the lesser of two evils."

* * *

If Finch ground his teeth any harder, they would surely crack into pieces.

After Kitty opened her birthday gifts, Mr. Finch handed Bonnie her GED results and a letter from a scholarship foundation for impoverished students offering her a full ride to the college of her choice. When Mr. Reese insisted on taking Bonnie back to the city to make college arrangements, Finch didn't bother protesting and agreed to escort (a now fully clothed) Kitty to the hospital—a mistake he regretted for the remainder of the day. A gooey sound reverberated throughout the car, and he gripped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles went white.

"Stop it," Harold finally commanded. "Would you please stop doing that? You're only going to infect it."

Kitty hiked her dress farther up her leg, wiping away blood as the wound continued to gush. "I think I found a badger tooth stuck in here—wait, no. Aw, shit. That's a tendon. Woops."

Throughout the course of his life, Finch had been privy to some generally disturbing occurrences in the world, but the sticky sound Natasha's wound made as she picked around in it trumped them all for the time being. Wincing intensely, Finch asked, "Doesn't that _hurt?_ "

"What, this?" Kitty shoved a finger in the gash with a sickly squish. "Nope. One of the only useful side effects of the accident."

"What accident?"

Kitty smiled widely and patted the top of her head, despite it being covered in blood. "Ten-thousand volts straight through my central nervous system. It should have blown my brains out, or at least blasted my heart to pieces, but thankfully all it did was fry the hair off my arms and make me impervious to pain."

Finch paused a moment to ponder this revelation. Ten-thousand volts should have instantly killed her. It wasn't impossible for her to have survived, but it was still _near_ impossible. He was still somewhat reluctant to believe her stories outright without any kind of proof. Cocking an eyebrow, Finch asked, "How did that happen?"

Kitty ignored the question and reached for the radio dial, quickly tuning it to a local hip-hop station currently in the middle of playing _Salt Shaker_ by the Ying-Yang Twins and Lil Jon.

Finch was bemused for only a few seconds before he reached out and shut off the radio.

"Hey," Kitty complained. "That's some quality music right there."

"We shall agree to disagree."

Kitty flopped back against the passenger seat. For the span of five minutes, the only sounds came from the steady hum of the motor and the occasional clunk of the car as it ran over dips in the road.

"I'm sorry my dirty commoner's blood is destroying your expensive leather seats."

Finch risked a sideways glance at the damage and watched as blood seeped from the gash. The red droplets were a stark contrast against her pale skin, and they pooled at the bottom of her leg before steadily dripping onto the seat and floorboard of his car. "It wouldn't bleed so much if you'd stop touching it."

Kitty had already soaked through the paper towels and washcloths she'd brought to stanch the cut, and now her hands were slick with her own blood. Making sure to handle it with great care, Kitty adjusted the large swan egg balancing on her stomach. As the sole surviving egg from the badger attack, she'd taken it back to the safehouse and done her best to incubate it.

"What are you going to name the cygnet?" Finch asked.

"Beyoncé."

"Beyoncé?"

"She's a trumpeter swan. It seems fitting to name her after a singer." A look of discomfort passed over her face, and in the least sexual way possible, she reached up and adjusted her breasts. Without warning, Kitty maneuvered her way out of her too-tiny bra and furiously flung it out the window. "See you in hell, bitch!" The undergarment bounced once in the road behind them and flopped to a stop. "I've always hated that thing," Kitty complained and continued to rub at the newly freed mounds. "Doesn't do shit unless I'm near starving to death."

Staring straight ahead at the road, Finch found himself speaking on autopilot. "I believe they only work if they fit properly."

"Yeah? Well, that would explain things. I had my assistant buy that for me when I was fifteen." Kitty paused. "I might have been fourteen. Thirteen? Hm."

Finch relaxed as they passed a sign welcoming them into the local community. The hospital was only a few miles away. "I'll give you some money to purchase any . . . womanly accessories you need."

"I was raised by wolves, Finch. Everyone's always bought things for me. I don't know the first thing about purchasing _womanly accessories_." Kitty turned in her seat, splaying her fingers and accidently dripping blood on Harold's pants. "Did you know women are supposed to bleed out of their vaginas? I didn't believe Bonnie at first, but as soon as she ran out of birth control pills . . ." Kitty shuddered. "Disgusting. That can't possibly happen to all women . . . can it?"

Harold couldn't tell if she was being serious or simply trying to make the conversation as uncomfortable as possible. Both were equally probable at this point.

When she didn't further the conversation, Finch glanced over to see what had pacified her and discovered Kitty was typing away on his cellphone. He looked down in the front pocket he usually kept in in, confirmed the phone was his, and rolled his eyes. "What are you doing?"

"Research," Kitty replied. "You have amazing coverage out here." Having been raised by an exclusively male staff of scientists, Kitty had been spared the majority of "talks" usually given by the mother figure in the family. After her father's assassination, she was afforded the opportunity to work with women, but by that time she was old enough for everyone to assume she already knew the ins and outs of being a woman and didn't bother to explain anything.

Kitty finished reading an online article aimed at informing young teen girls about their body, and she exhaled loudly. "Ohhhh, okay. That makes sense." Kitty leaned over and dropped Harold's now bloodied cellphone back in his shirt pocket. "I don't have a uterus."

Harold snorted tersely, staring straight ahead.

"My father thought it would be in my best interest to have a hysterectomy when I was twelve and a half."

Finch reached for the radio and tuned it to his favorite opera station, momentarily too frazzled to remember Kitty's distaste for the genre. But instead of asking politely for him to change the channel, Kitty flew into a panicked frenzy. Crouching down low in her seat to better free the use of her legs, she slammed her shoes against the radio with a violent urgency, screaming hysterically in Russian until the stereo system short circuited with a sharp white pop and fell silent.

Finch stopped the car in the middle of the deserted road and shifted his entire body to stare at her.

"Sorry," Kitty whispered, looking genuinely embarrassed. "I don't like opera."

"Yes," Finch snapped, "I surmised that much on my own."

Kitty cradled the swan egg against her chest and stared straight ahead out the windshield, effectively reversing their respective roles. "I might be able to fix it," she offered, swiping away some nervous sweat that had gathered on her brow.

"I think you've done enough, thank you."

Neither of them spoke as Finch put the car back in drive and continued the journey to the hospital. Unaccustomed to long drives without music, Harold's mood soured the further they traveled, despite the fact that Kitty had finally decided to stop picking at her ripped flesh. It wasn't a matter of fixing the radio—his funds were more than capable of simply buying himself a new car altogether—but Kitty's constant destructive behavior only seemed to be worsening.

Today a car radio. Tomorrow . . . ?

"Holy shit."

Finch briefly closed his eyes and exhaled. "Miss Krause, I grow tired of asking. Please refrain from using such coarse language."

"Harold, _look!_ " Kitty held up the egg. A tiny beak had wedged itself within a crack in the shell. It wobbled in Kitty's cupped hands, and more cracks spider-webbed along the white outer casing. "She's alive! Beyoncé lives to dance another day!"

* * *

Natasha received a rabies shot as a precaution, and throughout the stitches procedure she'd loudly complained about the need to get Beyoncé out of the cold and into the warm sunshine.

Finch exited the hospital and stepped out into the sun, shielding his eyes from the bright rays. "I'm surprised you haven't mentioned the fact that every time we encounter one another, you end up needing stitches."

"Oh, Harold," Kitty replied cheerfully. "Just look at her. She has my eyes." Beyoncé cheeped loudly and struggled to lift her feathered head. By the time Kitty and Finch reached the hospital, the swan had completely broken free of the egg. Having imprinted on Kitty, the cygnet wanted nothing to do with anyone or anything else and quickly sought refuge in the warmth between her breasts.

"Finch?"

Harold straightened at the sound of the familiar voice. "Hello, Mr. Reese. I assume Miss McCully's new living arrangements have been taken care of?"

"Pretty nice apartment for a freshman," said Reese. "Cost more than the ten-thousand she originally asked for."

"Then I suppose it was fortunate for us all that she won such a generous scholarship," Finch replied with a hint of a smile.

"It's all secure here," Reese reported. "I'm heading out. How's the invalid?"

"Hi, John!" Kitty yelled. "Congratulations are in order. I just became a mother!"

"What?"

"The swan egg hatched," Finch clarified. "I'll talk to you later. Give Miss McCully my best."

Kitty opened the passenger door and waited for Finch to start the car before saying, "Thank you for giving Bonnie the money I asked for."

Finch pulled the car out of the hospital parking lot, feigning confusion.

"I know you gave her the money. I recognize bullshit when I smell it. Nice touch with the fake scholarship letterhead." Kitty smiled knowingly. "Don't worry, Harold. Bonnie bought it wholeheartedly, and I'm not about to spoil your secret. Well, now that Bonnie is situated, I guess I can move on to the next person on my debt list."

Finch had assumed he'd be taking her back to the safehouse. "Where will you go?"

"If you could drop me off at the Brooklyn Bridge," Kitty continued, "I'd be eternally grateful."

"What's in Brooklyn?"

"A friend," Kitty answered. "A very pissed off friend that I should have checked in with months ago."

"You've enjoyed a few months of rest and relaxation at the safehouse, but in case you've forgotten, there are armed thugs ready and willing to abduct you the second you're identified. It is in both our best interest to shop here outside the city. You certainly can't go walking around New York City in broad daylight. At least not . . ." Unable to properly address the fact that the top portion of her clothing revealed obvious signs that she was not wearing a bra, Finch gestured to her entire ensemble and stated, "At least not half-dressed."

"Half-dressed?" Kitty looked down at her outfit. "I'm not wearing half a dress. Your comment confuses me."

* * *

Harold Finch might possibly have felt more comfortable being this close to an illicit drug deal. The distinctive scent of women's perfume was so potent it could be detected almost three stores down. Harold took a few cautionary glances around to make sure nobody was staring, as if it mattered. This small town shopping center was so deserted the only other soul wandering the building was the janitor. "Here," Harold said uncomfortably as he handed Kitty five one-hundred dollar bills, "this should cover the cost of . . . however many you need."

"How will I know if it'll fit?"

"I don't know," he whispered. "Just . . . go find an attendant to help you."

"Why are you whispering?"

"Please, Miss Krause, just go."

Kitty relented with a sigh.

Victoria's Secret was too colorful for her liking. She'd never had the opportunity to browse their merchandise before because the staff had always assumed she was homeless and promptly shooed her out. Distracted by the large displays of winged mannequins, it took a while for Kitty to make her way to the front desk.

"Hello, ladies." Kitty leaned casually against the service counter, legs crossed. "My tits are throbbing like someone just used them for boxing practice, and I heard this fine establishment can help me garner the support I need. For my tits, of course."

The two female associates exchanged uncomfortable smiles, both locked in a silent argument. The loser stepped forward. "I can assist you."

Two minutes later, Kitty exited the store. Finch—who had been loitering a fair distance away—approached her, keeping enough distance from the shop entrance to keep from feeling completely uncomfortable. "All settled?"

"Settled? I haven't even tried anything on yet. I forgot Beyoncé was napping between my boobs." Kitty laughed as she gently handed over the swan. "Gave the attendant a scare. You'd think she'd never seen a bird before."

The next time Kitty exited the store, Finch rushed forward. "Finished?"

"Yes."

Finch looked at her empty hands and asked, "Where are your purchases?"

"I didn't buy anything," Kitty answered. "I didn't even try anything on. As soon as I realized they wanted $73 for one bra, I left. _One bra,_ Harold. Victoria's Secret can kiss my ass."

"What . . . Miss Krause, what is the problem?" Finch grumbled irritably. "I gave you more than enough money to buy six of them. _Including tax._ "

"This is highway robbery." Kitty clutched the stack of bills. "Can't I just keep the money?"

"Give me that." Finch snatched the cash away and tightly grasped Kitty's wrist, pulling her alongside him into the store. "This young woman would like six . . . of the _things_." He placed the money down on the register.

"But Finch—" Kitty complained.

Harold turned stiffly and cut her off. "Just because you don't want to act like a mature adult doesn't mean I have to stoop to your level."

"Fine," Kitty replied. "What's your favorite color?"

" _What does that have to do with anything?_ "

Once Kitty had finally been escorted to the fitting rooms, Finch let out an exasperated sigh. He kept his eyes trained on the smooth surface of the checkout counter, not daring to let his eyes wander the store. It was bad enough that Kitty's juvenile behavior had forced him in here in the first place, but now the remaining store clerk was staring awkwardly at him.

Harold resolved not to cower like an immature schoolboy and straightened as much as his spine would allow. He took a brief glance around, convincing himself that he had just as much right to be in this establishment as anyone else.

Besides, it wasn't as if he didn't know what a bra looked like—on or off a woman.

"Give me the money!"

Harold turned around to face the young man who had yelled. A black mask obscured his face, and he was wielding a handgun pointed at the register. The sight of the gun momentarily stunned Finch, keeping him from trying his best to persuade the young man from following through with this crime.

"Come on, come on," the man shouted wearily. The hand wielding his gun shook with nerves. "Give me all the money in the register."

Kitty burst out of the changing room, searching for the threat. When she saw the man pointing a gun at Finch—who was still cradling a chirping Beyoncé—she stormed forward screaming, " _Ne napravlyayte pistolet na moikh ptits!_ "

The young masked man—too cowardly to actually pull the trigger, and somewhat confused at Kitty's unclothed state—shouted a few halfhearted threats. Kitty ignored them all and walked right up to the barrel of the gun, disarmed him, and grasped the back of his head, bringing it down hard against the countertop. His unconscious body slumped in a heap.

"Amateur." Turning her attention to Finch, Kitty's deep frown brightened into a contented smile. "I understand now what all the fuss is about." Cupping her covered breasts, she said, "It's as if the hands of God are holding everything exactly where they're supposed to be. Not sure if it's worth $73, but—"

"We'll take six," Finch told the saleswoman and practically tossed her the money. "Get your dress back on," he ordered. "We're leaving."

* * *

 _2012, New York City_

Kitty nudged Beyoncé into the tiny inflatable pool she'd placed in the corner of the library. The cygnet gave a shrill squawk of panic, realized she could float, and cheeped happily as it paddled around in little circles.

"That's my girl!" Kitty praised.

"Floating is instinctual—" Reese began, but Finch nudged him to stop talking.

"Do you have everything you need for our new number?" asked Finch. "I've printed you out a list of last know places of residence. She's bound to turn up at one of them sooner or later."

"Sure thing, Finch." Reese eyed Kitty suspiciously. Harold had relayed the arguably heroic happenings in Victoria's Secret—making sure to never state the name of the store they were in—but Reese couldn't help but remain weary of her presence around his employer. "Are you sure you're comfortable with her here?"

"Comfortable?" Finch muttered under his breath. "Not in the slightest, but I'm out of viable options. The only way to make sure she isn't assassinated or tempted to commit arson is to keep her where I can see her. I'm sure I'll manage."

"Eat your feed, Beyoncé," Kitty called from across the room. "You're never going to grow up to be fabulous unless you enjoy the healthful benefits of a balanced diet. I paid good money for this bird food. Stop acting like you don't enjoy it."

Pistachio fluffed his feathers in agitation. The bird had once again made his residence near Finch's keyboard and refused to have anything to do with Beyoncé. His round, black eyes found Finch's, and he let out a long coo.

"You and me, both," said Finch.


	11. The Things We Do For Love

**Thank you all for the reviews! I'm so happy to hear people are enjoying this. Leaving a review is the best way to encourage me to write more frequently, so that means less wait time for you all *wink wink***

* * *

 _2011, Warren County, New York_

 _The front door was unlocked._

 _Kitty stepped inside the impressive house and kicked the door closed behind her. It was immaculate inside—the type of house she'd always envisioned Mildred owning. Mildred had always been the classier twin, and the tasteful glass decorations, antique furniture, and oil paintings served only to prove that fact._

 _But the utter silence of the house made Kitty's hair prickle at the back of her neck. "Mildred?" she called into the open air. Kitty's boots made no sound as she slowly rounded the corner into the living room, gun drawn. She jerked sharply at a noise. Someone was upstairs._

 _DO NOT ASCEND THE STAIRCASE_

 _NATASHA, PLEASE—_

 _Kitty ripped out the earpiece, letting it bounce to a stop on the hardwood flooring._

 _Step by careful step, Kitty moved closer to the top floor of the house. The voice grew louder the closer she got, but it wasn't until she stood right outside the large master bedroom that she realized the voice was singing._

 _Ice cold metal stung Kitty's fingers as she twisted the doorknob and leaned into the wood. The door creaked open, stopping suddenly. A large mass was blocking the entrance, and it took a substantial push to move it out of the way so she could enter the room._

 _Thomas Fields' dead body was blocking the door._

 _Kitty paused at the sight of her sister's husband. There was a bullet hole between his eyes. Dried blood surrounded the cut. Steeling herself for the inevitable, Kitty looked up and scanned the room. A CD player was on repeat, currently belting out "Song to the Moon" from Mildred's favorite opera, Rusalka._

 _Kitty saw her mother first. She was sprawled out on her stomach, as if she had been killed while running for the door. Her body lied next to the woman Natasha had hired to deliver Mildred's child in secret._

 _Kitty's eyes finally found what she'd traveled across the world to save. Mildred was dressed in a flowing white nightgown, now soiled with drops of blood. She had always been as pale as Natasha, but now her skin was a ghostly white. A scream built up in Natasha's tight throat as she dropped the gun, fell to her knees, and vomited on the carpet. The opera CD ran through its playlist and paused to rewind back to the first track._

 _It was only then, in the still silence, that Kitty began to scream._

* * *

 _Sloppily ripping the top off another container of brandy, Kitty tilted the bottle back, gulping. She was so drunk by this point the majority of the liquid sloshed across her face and down the front of her shirt, missing her mouth completely. At one point Kitty choked on the potent drink so violently she believed she would die. Disappointment flooded her when she didn't._

 _A loud clank echoed through the silent house as the brandy bottle finally slipped through Kitty's fingers and fell to the floor. Mouth slack and drooling, she prayed for alcohol poisoning._

 _In her insurmountable grief, Kitty had carried Mildred downstairs and positioned her sister's corpse beside her while she drank. The longer Kitty stared at the body, the longer she wished to join her. Kitty had never been one to believe in an afterlife, but surely anything would be better than feeling the way she did at this moment._

 _Slumping next to the dead body, Kitty wiped at the bloodied gunshot between Mildred's eyes. Dried rusty flakes crumbled under Kitty's gentle caress. She pulled the limp remains of her sister into her lap, sobbing into her hair._

 _Eight hours later, Kitty awoke from her alcohol-induced stupor. She'd fallen asleep atop Mildred, and for a long while she didn't bother moving. Mildred smelled of floral shampoo and her favorite candy—liquorish ropes. She smelled of home._

 _The sun had almost completely set, and darkness was already creeping into the house._

 _Head throbbing painfully from her hangover, Kitty pulled herself to her feet. Dizziness, nausea, and an overwhelming confusion brought rash thoughts to her mind, and all at once she resolved to burn the house down with herself inside it. There was no point in her living anymore, and she couldn't think of a better way to die than in a fiery explosion. There were plenty of explosives still strapped to her belt, and Mildred's husband kept all sorts of alcohol in the cellar that Kitty could use as fuel._

 _The cellphone in her shirt pocket vibrated, startling her. Kitty checked the screen and noticed she had 9,327 missed calls. Having a good idea who was trying to reach her, Kitty shuffled back into the entrance hallway, picked up the earpiece, and muttered, "What do you want?"_

 _UPSTAIRS HAMPER_

 _"I'm not in the mood for your cryptic bullshit," Kitty snarled._

 _NATASHA, LISTEN TO ME_

 _CHECK THE UPSTAIRS HAMPER_

 _"For what?"_

 _YOUR NEWBORN NIECE_

* * *

 _2011, New York City_

 _Bonnie hurried through the darkened alleyways back to the club. Her break was scheduled to end in eleven minutes, but her boss didn't take kindly to any sort of tardiness. It was best if she returned ten minuets early rather than even one minute late._

 _As she rounded the corner onto one of the main streets leading back to the club, she heard the shrill scream of a baby in distress. Searching for the sound, Bonnie discovered a young woman sitting motionless on the curb. Bonnie would have continued rushing past the woman had she not noticed the frighteningly dead look in her eyes—the same look Bonnie's mother had in the last few days leading up to her death._

 _The woman was covered in ash and smelled strongly of smoke. Her bloodshot eyes were ringed with purple half-moons, and her dark hair was dirty and stringy, blowing about in the slight breeze. Strapped to her chest in a sling, a tiny newborn baby wailed with the intensity of a pterodactyl, but the woman didn't seem to notice. In fact, the woman didn't even seem to care much about any of the numerous people passing her by._

 _Bonnie slowed her powerwalk and watched as a few kind strangers tossed coins in a small paper cup next to the woman and her baby. Instead of thanking them for their donation, the woman continued to stare blankly at nothing._

 _"Hey," Bonnie asked, "are you okay?" Deciding to intervene for the sake of the child, Bonnie kneeled before the motionless woman and placed a hand on her shoulder. "Hello?"_

 _The woman stirred to life at Bonnie's touch and instinctively wrapped her arms across her chest, shielding the baby in its small fabric carrier._

 _"It's okay." Bonnie held up her empty hands in surrender. Touching the woman had brought such a startled reaction that Bonnie wondered if any of the people tossing pocket change into her cup had actually bothered to speak to her. "I'm not going to hurt you. I just want to know if your baby is okay."_

 _"I don't know," the woman croaked, sounding a million years old. "She won't stop crying."_

 _"Maybe she's hungry?" Bonnie offered. She wanted to help, but she was quickly running out of time, and she didn't want to check into work late. Tottering nervously from one foot to the other, Bonnie stood back up. "Do you need some help? There's a women's shelter two blocks from here. I can point you in the right direction."_

 _"I need a ticket."_

 _"A ticket?"_

 _The woman locked eyes with her, seeming alive for the first time during their conversation. "I need a bus ticket out of the city." Tears welled in her eyes, spilling over and leaving dark streaks in the soot on her cheeks. "Please," she whispered hoarsely, clutching the baby tighter. "I need to get her far, far away from here."_

 _It had taken Bonnie a lifetime to save up enough money to garner the courage to leave the brothel. She planned to become a fashion designer, but staring at the complete and utter despair in this woman's eyes made her rethink her plans. Her boss would never let her leave the brothel for good. She brought in far too much money. If she wanted to help this woman, she only had a few minutes to do so._

 _Clenching her eyes shut in anguish, Bonnie asked, "How much do you need?"_

* * *

 _2012, New York City_

"I thought offering me a job was out of the question?"

"I don't remember ever saying that," replied Finch. He finished typing on his desktop computer and swiveled his chair around to face her, so he wouldn't have to strain his stiff neck. "You are in dire need of money, and Mr. Reese—whether he wishes to admit it or not—is in dire need of an assistant. You've proven yourself to be incredibly agile, able to handle a firearm, and at least somewhat skilled in hand-to-hand combat, but there would need to be some . . . stipulations to your employment, should you accept the job."

Kitty had been sitting next to his desk for the past hour. Smiling sweetly up at him, she batted her lashes and leaned forward to rest her head on Harold's knee. "Such as?"

"Such as—" Harold began uneasily. Placing two tentative fingers under her chin, he gently lifted her head off his knee. "I do not feel comfortable when you do things like this. If you're going to be my associate, you need to treat me in a professional manor."

Kitty pulled her head away and placed a hand on his shoe instead. "Anything you say, Harold."

"It should be obvious, but you are never to tell anyone details about this job, your true identity, or any personal particulars involving Mr. Reese or myself. Keep your male identity as convincing as possible while out in public, even if that means letting Mr. Reese do most of the talking. Have you thought of a male name you'd like for your cover identification?"

"Nathan," Kitty answered. It was the cover she used with Grace, so she figured it would be easy to remember.

"No," Finch retorted sharply.

"Why not?" When Finch refused to elaborate, Kitty said, "Fine. How about Naum?"

"What?"

"Naum. N-A-U-M."

"Are you referring to . . ." Finch peered at her out the side of his eyes, "the computer chess engine, Naum?"

"You asked me to pick a name, and then you reject it. I pick a new one, and you make fun of me for it?"

"I'm not making fun of anything, Miss Krause. I'm simply asking—you know what? Nevermind. Naum is a wonderful choice. After I print your identification, keep it on you at all times. It is the most important detail of your cover, which also includes keeping your suit on and wearing this." Harold handed her a custom cut of facial hair and a small tube of theatre glue. "This is much more convincing than the makeup you've been wearing."

After Natasha finished attaching the hair to her face, Finch took a headshot on his cellphone, typed up the final details of her new cover, and printed out a driver's license.

"Prudence is of the upmost importance," he continued. "You are also forbidden from bringing anyone here to the library without my explicit permission. Do we have an understanding?"

"I accept."

"In that case," Finch continued, ignoring the pressure of her fingers on his foot, "my offer stands firm. I will supply you with money for housing, food, and general expenses."

Kitty's expression brightened. "Like more bras?"

"Miss Krause."

"Sorry."

"In addition, you will receive a salary in which you can spend any way you'd like." Finch paused to shoot her a warning glance. "Although, I would greatly appreciate it if you chose not to waste it on purchases that would inevitably result in mayhem, considering that is counterproductive to the work we do."

Kitty sat up expectantly, looking slightly confused. "Wait . . . I'll get _paid_ for working? With . . . with actual _money?_ "

Finch blinked at her.

Kitty's smile widened until it stretched from ear to ear. "I've never been paid for working before. I mean, they'd feed me, so I guess that's a form of payment. This is exciting!" Kitty stood and scooped up Beyoncé from the tiny cushion she was napping on. "Think of the things we could buy, Beyoncé!"

"As such, I expect you to stop pickpocketing," said Harold. "If you are ever in need of immediate funds, call me." Finch tapped his pinkie finger on the desk, worried that he was making the worst decision of his life. "Alright, then. Meet Mr. Reese at this address. We have a new number."

* * *

Reese watched their latest number, Scott Powell, through an open kitchen window. Scott was a construction worker, and his life seemed painless enough as he entered the kitchen to a beautiful wife and happy children.

Reese dropped the binoculars and leaned back against the driver's seat of his car. He tapped his earpiece and asked, "Do you ever crave a more conventional life, Finch?"

Harold paused to think over his answer to such a personal question. "If you mean a life without the numbers? It had crossed my mind."

"Well, it looks like Powell has a pretty normal one."

Finch detected the disappointment in Reese's voice, and he found himself thinking back on his relationship with Grace. Harold couldn't remember the exact moment he accepted the fact that he'd never live a normal life, but in the brief years he'd spent with Grace, he'd fooled himself into believing it was possible. A house in the suburbs, a wife, family to come and visit for the holidays, maybe some nieces and nephews to spoil. All of those possibilities came crashing down all around him the second he began constructing the machine. Maybe even before that.

"If there's anything our little venture with Miss Krause has proven, Mr. Reese," Harold replied, "it's that people are rarely what they seem."

"Speaking of which, how are you holding up with her?"

"About that," Finch stated slowly.

Reese's passenger door swung open and Kitty plopped in the seat. "Hello, stranger. How long do we have to watch this guy eat breakfast?"

"Finch," Mr. Reese spoke softly. "What is she doing here?"

Finch could practically see the furious expression on John's face through the strained nature of his speech. "I know this isn't ideal for you, Mr. Reese."

"Finch," Reese repeated.

"Sorry I'm a little late," Kitty announced. "I had Harold help bind my breasts."

Finch's voice burst through the Bluetooth with an affronted, "I did no such thing!"

"John," Kitty chanted. "John. John, are my boobs noticeable in this suit? John. John, you're not looking."

* * *

Reese followed Scott to several locations as the man aimlessly wandered the city. Listening in on his cellphone calls revealed Scott was searching for a job, despite having told his family he was still working for a construction company—a company in which Finch discovered had enforced major layoffs due to congressman Delancey's budget cuts almost eight months ago.

Kitty frowned as Finch explained the man's predicament over a secure Bluetooth connection. "Can't we just give him some money and move onto the next number?" she asked.

"That's not how this works," Reese explained coolly.

"I had Carter run a background check on Mr. Powell," Finch updated. "He has no prior faults against his record aside from a few parking tickets. He has, however, recently registered a firearm in his name—"

"Wait," Kitty interrupted, "we're working with Detective Carter now? Don't you think that's a little problematic, considering her top priority is finding Mr. Reese and her second priority is finding _me?_ "

"Detective Carter and I have an understanding," Reese replied.

"That's great," she snapped, "but _I_ never had any of your little heart-to-hearts."

"Then I guess that means you need to stay away from her," Reese retorted sharply, finally turning to shoot Kitty a piercing stare.

"I happen to respect our dear Detective." Kitty raised her eyebrows. "I would never hurt your girlfriend, Reese. Damn."

"Would you two please focus on the mission at hand?" Finch cut in. "Mr. Reese, I'm sending you the details of a temp agency Mr. Powell has recently been in contact with."

"Why don't you ever send _me_ anything, Harold?" Kitty complained. "I supply you with bountiful photos of my voluptuous thighs, and I don't get anything in return."

Reese finally gave Kitty his full attention, seeming interested for the first time in what she had to say. "What are you talking about?"

"I went through Harold's cellphone photos a few days ago while I was browsing the Internet. Turns out he's a big fan of my tattoos. You don't have to sneak dirty photos of me while I sleep, Harold," Kitty purred into her Bluetooth. "I'd be more than happy to show you my tattoos later tonight. All you have to do is ask."

"You never deleted them, Finch?" Harold could detect the humor in Reese's voice. "I tried to warn you—"

Reaching forward at his desk, Harold disconnected the call. Finch was overwhelmingly thankful Natasha and Reese were away on a mission so they couldn't see his mortification. Alone in the library, Finch cringed to his heart's content.

* * *

Carter was furious.

Not only had she made the conscious decision to allow Reese to continue doing whatever it was he does, but now a congressman was dead because of it. Finch and Reese had promised that what they did was in the interest of saving lives, and now a man—an important man—was dead.

The number rang twice before Finch picked up. "You gave me your word," Carter accused before Finch had the chance to speak. "You told me not to worry about Scott Powell, and now look what's happened."

"Mr. Powell is not responsible for the assassination of Congressman Delancey, detective. He was set up."

"Set up? By who?"

"I'm currently working on the answer to that question. I'll be in touch."

Carter slammed her cellphone shut and gripped it tighter than necessary. FBI agents were still flooding her precinct, and a man named Special Agent Donnelly had since replaced Special Agent Snyder as her key informant regarding Mildred Krause. When asked about Agent Snyder's whereabouts, Carter was told he'd suffered a "workplace accident" and was unavailable for further missions.

"You seem peeved."

Carter glanced behind her shoulder to give Fusco an irritated frown. If only he knew how frustrating working with Reese and Finch was.

* * *

 _2012, Brooklyn, New York_

Working with Finch and Reese was turning out to be an amusing enterprise—one that resulted in money. Saving Scott Powell from federal prison seemed to do wonders for both Finch and Reese's mood, but it was the money that satisfied Kitty. She gripped tightly to a wad of cash as she strolled into her apartment.

"Look, Mildred . . . _money!_ Actual money!" Kitty held her paycheck up in the air, waving it excitedly at the computer screen. "I can support Peregrine on my own now."

After she found a replacement home for Mildred's child, Kitty returned to New York and began sending payments for Mama Zhong to launder. Paranoid that electronic transactions would lead her enemies straight to her niece, their deal stated Kitty would never make a physical appearance anywhere near China Town, and in exchange Mama Zhong would send the cash Pistachio provided to one of twelve alternating addresses, all constructing a complicated mailing system consisting of thirty-two families instructed to open the envelope of cash upon arrival and send it to yet another address on the list until it reached its destination at a PO Box in the middle of a farming town in rural Iowa.

Sending money had been difficult up to this point for two reasons. Before she met Team Machine, Kitty had focused solely on sending every dollar she pickpocketed to Mama Zhong, often going days without food. After Harold kept her in the safehouse with Bonnie and agreed to have Mr. Reese send Pistachio's payments in her stead, Kitty had to endure the disgrace of—yet again—sending her niece money she didn't earn. It was a source of great shame for Natasha, through she would never admit it, and it made her proud to know that from now on, Peregrine would only receive funds that Natasha had earned through honest hard work.

 _I STILL DO NOT APPROVE_

"Oh, come on, Mildred. You're the one who ran risk analyses on them and gave your approval. You can't just take it all back because you're lonely while I'm on missions."

 _I AM NOT LONELY_

"Whatever." Kitty shoved the bills in a glass jar under the desk and took a seat in front of the screen. "You should have seen it, Mildred. The congressman's assassination? Whole thing had been orchestrated by his campaign manager working with some two-bit hacker. Talk about sleeping with the enemy, right?" Pulling out a bag of Cheetos, Kitty munched away as she continued her story. "Took forever to unearth the truth. It even stumped Finch, and he had to call for backup."

 _IT WOULDN'T HAVE TAKEN SO LONG IF YOU HAD ENLISTED MY HELP_

"You know why we can't do that. Stop interrupting my story. Where was I? Oh, yes, we talked to some woman named Zoe Morgan. Nice face, but between you and me, her calf muscles kind of freak me out."

 _WHAT ABOUT GRACE?_

Kitty bolted up in the chair. "What about her?"

 _HAVE YOU DISMISSED HER AS A VIABLE CONTINGENCY?_

Realizing the mention of her new friend was not in relation to any dangerous happenings, Kitty relaxed in her seat. "I'm not so sure I need a contingency anymore. I make more than enough money to support Peregrine's every want or need."

 _I ADVISE AGAINST DISMISSING GRACE AS YOUR REPLACEMENT_

 _THIS IS A DANGEROUS WORLD FULL OF EVIL PEOPLE_

 _ANYTHING COULD HAPPEN, NATASHA_

 _YOU DON'T WANT PEREGRINE TO BE ALL ALONE IN THE WORLD, DO YOU?_

"There you go with the doom and gloom again," Kitty complained lightheartedly, but underneath her fake smile, she worried maybe Mildred was right.

* * *

 _2012, New York City_

"I still don't understand," said Grace. "You ran away. Why didn't you go to the hospital?"

Kitty surveyed the café Grace had chosen. It was small and not horrifically busy—two factors that made Kitty uneasy. It was uncomfortable talking in such a quiet place. She wished Grace would lower her voice. "I don't have health insurance," Kitty recited her premeditated lie. "Remember how I was hit by a car a few months ago? The bill for my broken arm was unaffordable as it was. I guess . . . I guess I panicked at the thought of another bill."

Grace offered a kind smile. "Well, I'm glad to see you're alright." Not only had the young man groomed himself with a startling precision, but there was no longer a frightening glimmer of despair in his eyes. He was well rested, well dressed, and by all accounts happy, and that made Grace happy in return.

Kitty took a bite of her blueberry scone and mirrored Grace's smile. "I'm more than alright. I'm employed."

Grace nearly dropped her pastry. "You found a job? That's wonderful! Congratulations!"

Kitty reached up and scratched behind her ear. For some reason she didn't understand, Grace's praise made her self-conscious. "Its not . . . super important or anything. I mean, it's just a lackey job, really."

"Don't be so down on yourself." Grace patted the free hand Kitty had rested idly on the table. "Where is the job?"

Kitty stared at her hand even after Grace had stopped patting it. "It's with a private security team. Sometimes I'm out in the field, sometimes I get to work with computers."

"Sounds like a perfect match for you."

"Pays better than any other job I've ever had." Kitty finally pulled her attention away from her hand and forced herself to meet Grace's eyes. "Except maybe this one job I took in Sweden. They were pretty nice."

Grace raised her eyebrows. "You've been to Sweden?"

"I've been everywhere," Kitty answered. "I'm not American. Have I not mentioned that?"

"Where are you from, originally?"

Kitty paused before answering, raking her brain for any sort of danger that revealing the truth would put her in. "Germany."

Grace leaned closer, scrutinizing Kitty with a polite interest. "Your English is amazing. I don't even detect an accent."

"I'm good with accents." Kitty shrugged. "This isn't really the way I talk."

Grace's smile widened. "What does your real accent sound like? When you're not imitating us Yanks?" she added, amused.

It wasn't until Kitty reached up again to nervously scratch behind her ear that she realized her face was burning under the fake facial hair. "I . . . I, uh—" Kitty was miserably confused. She felt the same sensations she did when her life was in danger, but Grace posed no threat. It made no sense.

Grace noticed Kitty's discomfort and winced. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to put you on the spot."

"This is my accent. Try not to be disappointed." Kitty spoke with the sort of relief that comes from not having to pretend. Her entire life had been pretend. As a child she had struggled to pretend normality, if only for the sake of her sister. As an adult, she pretended to be whoever she needed to be, often changing her accent or "native language" to suit her needs and better blend into her surroundings. It was exhausting.

Her true accent was faintly detectable to the native English speaker. It was infused with just a hint of German—nothing like the cringeworthy exaggerated attempts of B-list actors on American television. Most noticeable was her slightly harder pronunciation of consonants, but it was so faint it seemed almost ambiguous. Kitty's mother had taught her German first, then English, so she'd practiced a refined English accent for the majority of her life. Kitty learned an assortment of other languages—including Russian, Mandarin, Korean, Swedish and Spanish—on her own with the help of Dr. Boer.

Grace had been fascinated with the world from an early age. Traveling the globe had always been on her bucket list, and she couldn't help but satisfy her curiosity by asking Kitty any and every question that popped into her head. She assumed Kitty wouldn't mind, considering their roles had been reversed during their previous meeting.

Settling for one of the smaller raspberry tarts, Grace asked, "What brought you to America?"

"The love of a woman."

"Aw," Grace crooned softly. "That's romantic. Is she here in New York?"

"She's dead. She died while I was on a plane to America."

Grace's cheerful smile slowly morphed into a wide-eyed mortification. The tart she pinched between two fingers fell and bounced against her plate. "Nathan, I . . . I'm so very sorry."

"I don't feel well." Kitty stood and turned her head this way and that, seeming as lost and confused as the night she saved a child from a burning building. "I think I should go."

Connections formed in Grace's mind, and all at once she worried this grieving man was regressing to a point that would result in another incident like the one in which they first met. The turmoil of loss was evident in Kitty's expression alone, and now that Grace had reminded him of what he had lost, it was only a matter of time before he hopped back up onto a fence somewhere, waiting for death.

"Would you like to go for a walk?" Grace suggested with forced cheer. "I think some fresh air is just what we need."

* * *

If it were possible to kick herself in the rear, Grace would have gladly done so by now.

Kitty hadn't said a word since their departure from the café nearly ten minutes ago, and Grace was too worried about worsening the situation to try and start conversation. The two walked through the streets in silence, allowing the noises of the city to provide the soundtrack of their stroll.

"I'm sorry I am the way I am," Natasha apologized. "I've never really been a people person. Sometimes . . ." Kitty paused for a long moment. Cars passed them by on the street, honking loudly at one another to go faster or get out of the way. "Sometimes I see something or hear something or smell something that reminds me of her, and . . . I panic. You must think I'm a complete nutcase."

Grace perked up at the sound of Kitty's voice. "I don't think you're a nutcase. I think you're in mourning. People tend to do strange things when they're in mourning."

"Sometimes I worry I won't ever stop mourning." Kitty blinked, unsure. "It's supposed to stop eventually, isn't it?"

"Have you talked to anyone from back home?" Grace suggested. "Sometimes talking can help."

"I don't have any friends to talk to," Kitty murmured. "She was the only reason I came to this country."

Grace tugged nervously at her bottom lip with her teeth, unsure how to respond. "Well, we're friends. Aren't we?"

"Du bist net. Du bist schön. Sie bringen mir Frieden."

"What was that?" Grace asked.

"Ich mag dich sehr. Ich möchte dein Freund sein."

"What does that mean?"

Kitty observed the twinkling lights of the city. A small smile tugged at the edges of her lips. "It means I would like to do this again sometime."

* * *

"Give me a bottle of Poliakov. And not one of the flavored ones," Kitty added. "I can't stand that shit."

"Sure thing," the salesman huffed. "ID?"

Kitty fished out the drivers license Finch made her and slid it in-between the metal bars separating her from the man selling bottles of liquor behind the counter of a liquor booth. Natasha was thankful Grace had finally decided to go home, but she was even more thankful that she had chosen not to wear the American flag pin that allowed Mildred to see what she was doing. Right now, all she wanted to do was get drunk, and it was best if neither Grace nor Mildred had any knowledge of that fact.

The man accepted the card, read it over, and grunted. "What are you wasting my time for? Can't sell you alcohol for a good nine months."

"What are you talking about?" Kitty hissed. "I'm 22."

"Not according to your license."

Kitty ripped the card out from between the bars. "20? _20?"_ Her long white fingers curled around the plastic card as she hissed a single word through clenched teeth. "Harold."

* * *

The hour was late, but Harold knew better than anyone that the numbers never stopped coming. After Mildred had hacked into Finch's library equipment a few months ago in order to communicate with him, he'd panicked and shut everything off. Harold spent a good few days building all of his hardware from the ground up, focusing on a stronger firewall to protect himself from targeted threats in the future.

He often lied awake at night pondering Natasha's confusing situation. She had access to a tech-savvy friend who obviously not only cared about her wellbeing, but also had either the funds or the resources to readily acquire the funds required to secure medical equipment and a private surgeon on short notice. If this friend of hers was capable of securing large amounts of money, why was Kitty so persistent about working for her own wages?

Finch stepped into the darkened library and froze.

Someone was laughing, loudly.

He found Kitty upstairs next to his desktop computer. She was seated in his chair, a bottle of clear alcohol in her hand. Pistachio sat at the desk next to the keyboard as she sang a song to him in what sounded like Russian, though Finch wasn't entirely sure. Each time she slammed her hand down on the desk in time with the beat, Pistachio shifted himself closer to the keyboard.

"There you are," Kitty announced after noticing Finch standing in the hallway. "You crazy bastard."

"Miss Krause? What on earth are you doing in here?"

Kitty's eyes drooped sleepily. "Thought you were so clever . . . making my license under the legal drinking age. I was going to write you a strongly worded letter, but then I found it amusing, and now I'm too drunk to care either way." Kitty held up the half-empty bottle of vodka and slurred, "Jokes on _you_ , Harold! I paid someone to buy it for me! Haha!"

Finch had expected problems with Kitty's employment, but he hadn't expected them to start so soon after employing her. He took out his cellphone and hovered his thumb over Reese's number. A long row of metallic bags caught his eye, and he carefully walked over to a row of chip bags lined up on the shelf. Kitty had rearranged chunks of the library to accommodate food storage, and the longer Finch took to observe the library, the more food he noticed. There were sealed bags of dried meat hidden between books, under the desk, positioned near windowsills, and between shelves. Boxes of crackers, cans of tuna, and other preserved items were strategically scattered around the room—possibly the entire library.

Harold had never known hunger. He was raised poor, but his father had never been _this_ poor, and after living life as a billionaire for so long, Harold couldn't even begin to fathom the idea of food insecurity of this intensity.

"That's not where I keep my unmentionables, Mr. Finch. What you're looking for is about six blocks away in my top dresser drawer."

Harold stiffened, squeezing his eyes shut in nervous preparation to face the lascivious woman standing behind him. "You don't have to store food in here." When he turned, it took considerable restraint not to stumble backwards. He hadn't anticipated her proximity to be as intimately near as it was. Her silent footsteps were becoming an issue. "Actually," he continued, "I'd really rather you didn't. The last thing I want scuttling around the library are ants." Harold reached down and grabbed the closest bag of food on the bookshelf. "I'm afraid your artificially flavored cheese products will have to remain in the cupboard of your own apartment."

Kitty pouted her bottom lip. "Surely you don't mean all of them."

"Surely, I do. I'm certain you'll survive without—" Harold turned the bag to read the label. "—Cheetos."

"Fiend. Those Cheetos leave this room over my dead body."

"Do you even know what's in this?" Finch began listing off ingredients. "Enriched corn meal, vegetable oil, cheese seasoning . . . what on earth is _cheese seasoning?"_

Without missing a beat, she answered, "A mixture of whey protein, cheddar cheese cultures, milk, canola oil, malodextrin, salt, monosodium glutamate, lactic acid, citric acid, and artificial color number six."

"You've read the ingredients?"

Something darkened in the woman's eyes. "I know how to read, Mr. Finch."

"Yes, I'm well aware of your literacy," Harold backpedaled at the look on her face. "I never meant to insinuate otherwise. I'm just surprised that you've . . . _memorized_ the ingredients in Cheetos."

"Of course I did," she retorted hotly, swiping the orange bag out of his hands. "I needed to, so I could defend their nutritional value from pretentious billionaires who eat nothing but seven-hundred-dollar steaks for dinner." A soft cooing alerted the two of Pistachio's presence. The bird flew across the room and landed on her shoulder. Kitty cradled the bird against her chest, listening to the coos intensely. "Yes? Oh, okay, I'll tell him. Hey, Finch? Pistachio says you can shove your pretensions up your ass."

Harold felt the abrupt shift in the conversation like a dowsing of cold water, but he couldn't decide if the sudden abandonment of sexual discourse from the young woman brought him relief or uneasiness.

Where exactly did he go wrong? He replayed the previous conversation in his head, mulling over what could possibly have angered the young woman enough for her to clamber up onto his desk and sulk with a rather ugly scowl distorting her usually pretty features. Figuring she was throwing a tantrum about the food, he decided to relent. "On second thought, you may keep the snacks in here, if you'd like. If ants decide to crash the party . . . well, we'll cross that bridge when we get to it."

Instead of perking up and reveling in her victory, like he envisioned she would, Kitty turned on her side, facing away from him. "Whatever," she muttered. Pistachio bobbed his head on the walk up her shoulder and stared directly at Finch, as if the bird knew the man was responsible for his owner's current unhappiness.

"Miss Krause, you need to go home and rest." Not knowing how to rectify the situation, Harold limped awkwardly over to the desk. "And you need to understand that I cannot employ you if you continue to drink on the job."

Kitty rolled over to look at him. "Can I stay here?"

Harold had purchased her an apartment in the city, but he often wondered if she ever used it. Her request made him pause, saddened at the thought of how lonely she must be. "I don't live here, Miss Krause."

"No," she clarified, "can I stay here with your computer? I like the whirr it makes. It helps me sleep." Without waiting for his reply, Kitty slid off the table and pulled a fluffy dog bed fitted for a Labrador out from under the desk. Dragging it over to the side, out of the way, she curled up on the cushion. Despite her tall height, she'd managed to fold her incredibly long limbs until she was a neat little compact version of herself, like a kitten. "See? I don't take up much space."

"Miss Krause—"

"I'm sorry I'm such a burden, Harold." Kitty curled up tighter. "I don't mean to be. I've just had a really bad day, and I don't like being alone."

Finch took a seat in his chair to help alleviate the strain in his spine. His chronic pain had been flaring up recently, but he put off going to the doctor. In the twisted confines of his mind, the pain served as penance for the lives he could not save. He would endure it for their sake. "Tell me what happened," Finch offered softly. "It may help you feel better."

"Why did you stop asking me if I killed my family?" Kitty pushed up on her elbows. "For all you know, I could be a homicidal maniac."

Should he tell her about his correspondence with her friend? About the video that was sent to Reese's cellphone? Learning about Mildred's involvement may lead to learning that Finch and Reese know about her surviving niece. Finch wasn't sure if he was ready for her reaction. He sighed. "Did you kill your family?"

"Do you think I did?"

"No."

Kitty smiled bitterly. "You're wrong."

Detective Fusco had been the first to send in the call. He told Reese all about the grave of bodies far from the house, but what he didn't know is that Kitty had dug the grave using her bare hands with baby Peregrine strapped to her chest.

Finch sagged a little in his chair, despite the pinched nerve shooting pain between his shoulder blades. "I'm very sorry about your sister." When Kitty looked up with a confused frown, Finch said, "Detective Fusco was there with the police when they dug up the bodies. You gave her a proper burial before setting the woods on fire, didn't you?"

Kitty remained silent and still. The only movement she made in reaction to Finch's words was a slight nostril flare.

Finch tread carefully, keeping in mind that she had drank almost half a bottle of vodka in who knows how short a time. Kitty had left the remainder of the alcohol dangerously close to his computer. Finch carefully hid it under the desk, careful to set it down softly so Kitty wouldn't be reminded of its existence. "What I don't understand is," Harold continued, "why did you leave your mother in the house?"

Kitty sat up on the dog cushion and closed her eyes. "I don't know why I do half the things I do, Harold. After I woke up in the hospital . . . have you ever seen a fallen beehive split open on the ground? All of the carefully appointed positions of each bee are forsaken in the chaos. Every bee for himself. Sometimes it feels like my brain is the beehive."

"Was it revenge?" Harold asked. "Did you leave her body to burn because she ran you over with her car?"

Kitty rolled her eyes. "Just because someone hates you doesn't mean you have to return the sentiment."

"I'm sure your mother didn't hate you."

Kitty snorted, smiling sadly. "You're sweet, but you don't know what you're talking about. Why are you even here, Harold? Its almost midnight."

"There's no rest for the weary."

"I guess I'll leave you alone then."

Finch watched as Kitty pushed herself drowsily to her feet and yawned. The last thing he wanted was a drunken Natasha wandering the streets this late at night. "You may stay here tonight, Miss Krause."

She dropped the bed she was dragging back around the side of the desk. "What?"

"I'll be working here till morning anyway," he stated. "As long as you don't mind sleeping on that . . . rather uncomfortable looking mat, you may stay."

"This mat is a heavenly cloud." Kitty pulled the dog bed close to Finch's chair and curled up on it. "I'm used to sleeping on the floor without any sort of mat."

"This arrangement is just for tonight. I hope you realize I never expect to see you inebriated again, understood? Our job is too risky as it is without adding alcohol into the mix. Miss Krause, do you understand? Miss Krause?" He looked down to find Kitty already asleep, her lips slightly parted in a soft snore. Before he returned his attention to his login screen, Harold noticed one of her arms stretched out across the floor, her hand resting lightly on his shoe.


	12. Feral Cats Make the Best Mothers

**We all know Finch wants a happy ending massage. Stop fighting it, Harold.**

 _2011, Lassiter, Iowa_

 _The unoccupied greyhound bus bounced smoothly against another dip in the road. Kitty pulled her legs up to her chest and huddled closer against the fogged window, glad to be alone. No passengers meant no forced conversations with elderly women asking to touch her baby, or strange men shooting her flirtatious looks. The earth outside was yellowed and flat, and the monotony of it all lulled her into stasis._

 _Peregrine was asleep against Kitty's chest, pacified for the time being. Kitty had changed Peregrine's diaper, fed her formula, and sung her to sleep multiple times since their departure from New York City. After grasping at Kitty's breasts and gurgling her displeasure at not being constantly fed, Kitty allowed Peregrine to suckle her thumb._

 _Although Natasha had been trying very hard to remain indifferent to the child, the small smile that graced her lips when Peregrine's warm gums chewed Kitty's thumb revealed the fondness she really felt. "You'd think they'd be a goldmine for food, wouldn't you?" Kitty asked, motioning lightly towards her chest. "Sadly, no such luck."_

 _Mildred listened to Natasha's voice and analyzed the pitch to determine her mood. After calculating thousands of projected outcomes, Mildred concluded Natasha's mental state would only decline from this moment on if she followed through with her plan._

 _I THINK YOU SHOULD KEEP HER_

 _"And go where, exactly?" Kitty whispered. Her seat was near the rear of the bus, and the only other person on board was the bus driver, but she still took no chances. "Everyone on this damn planet will be looking for me soon—Decima, those Korean Jopok from Seoul, the People's Republic of China, the CIA . . . hell," Kitty added under her breath, "maybe even surviving members of the Siberian Volki."_

 _THAT ORGANIZATION WAS ANNIHILATED_

 _YOU ARE THE ONLY SURVIVOR_

 _"Doesn't matter. If anyone knew of my ties to . . . to the child, they'd use her to get to me. I don't care what happens to me anymore, but I won't endanger this . . . this . . . child by becoming her guardian."_

 _CALL HER WHAT SHE IS_

 _"What are you talking about?"_

 _SHE IS YOUR FAMILY_

 _Natasha's lips parted slightly—something on the tip of her tongue—but she ended up pressing her lips together instead while Mildred waited for a response._

 _I WOULD PROTECT YOU BOTH_

 _IT WOULDN'T BE AS DIFFICULT AS YOU THINK_

 _YOU COULD LIVE A GOOD LIFE_

 _I THINK YOU SHOULD KEEP HER_

Natasha pulled the Bluetooth out of her ear and pocketed it, flinching a hand up to swipe away a tear.

* * *

 _2012, New York City_

Finch realized he had made a horrific mistake even before opening his eyes. There'd been a few times that he accidently nodded off at his desk, and there was always hell to pay in the morning. As Finch cracked his eyes open to face the early morning sunshine, he realized that—unfortunately for him—this was one of those times.

He heard Beyoncé cheep incredibly close to his ear and shifted his eyes to the sound.

After spending hours researching their new number, Finch had dozed off atop the minimal paperwork he'd managed to gather. Natasha had awoken shortly after he fell asleep and sat cross-legged next to his face on the desk, her body stooped forward until she was practically hovering over him. Even though she was still wearing her suit, her fake facial hair lay in a small pile next to her. If his glasses hadn't fallen off in the night, Finch would have noticed her dark hair had grown out just enough to curl up under her ears.

"Good," Kitty crooned, "you're awake. It feels like I've been sitting here for hours."

Finch tried to lift his head to no avail, and instead settled for pushing his arms against the desk, painstakingly slow, until he rested up against the back of his chair. Crunching sounds echoed in his ears as his spine crackled straight, but a nerve caught in-between his shoulders, keeping him from being even slightly comfortable. His neck ached, his back pinched with a searing pain, and the realization that Natasha had been watching him sleep for an unknown amount of time all melted together to produce an inexplicably grouchy mood. The pain in his back increased, and try as he may, he could not help but clench his jaw to keep from fully wincing.

"I've been awake for a few hours, but I couldn't leave," Kitty stated, as if it should be obvious. "I had to watch you sleep."

"And why," Finch asked, pausing to stifle a groan of pain, "dare I ask, did you _have_ to watch me sleep?"

"Because if I left, something bad might have happened to you while I was away. Not worth the risk." Kitty slid off the desk and placed Beyoncé in her pool for her morning swim. As soon as the little swan was placated, Pistachio flew up to land on her shoulder, thankful Kitty had finally turned her attention from the swan. "It looks like the only danger you're in is the danger of a slipped disk. You need to loosen up."

Natasha reached out to grasp either side of his face, but before her fingers had the chance to touch his skin, Finch pulled away, wincing.

Kitty rolled her eyes in annoyance. "Believe it or not, Harold, I'm capable of being serious for more than five seconds."

"What are you doing?"

"Hold still," she snapped. "I spent a very long time in China. Learned all about pressure points."

"Please, don't touch me," he ordered brusquely.

"Stop being a baby," she scolded. Kitty reached out until she was close enough to run her fingers though his hair, but she stopped when she realized the only reason he wasn't jerking out of her grasp was because he legitimately couldn't move. "You're obviously in pain."

"Miss Krause," Finch deadpanned, "do you remember the conversation we had about professionalism? You're currently breaking that agreement."

Ignoring him, Kitty walked behind his chair and began massaging his scalp anyway.

"My fingers are pretty damn strong, if I do say so myself. A little deep tissue massage, and you should be feeling better in no time. Just wait until I make my way down to your—"

"Am I interrupting something?" Reese stood in the hallway leading into the main chamber of their operations, doughnut box in hand.

"Look at this!" Kitty pointed at a patch of red, rashy skin rising on her neck. "Harold is upsetting me, and now I'm getting hives."

"Please, Miss Krause," Finch grumbled as his thumbs rubbed circles against his temples. "Can you at least _attempt_ not to be unpleasant? I haven't the strength today."

"Long night?" Reese plopped the box of doughnuts down on the desk and selected a sprinkled one for himself.

"Long and incredibly uneventful," Finch answered. "I know next to nothing about our new number. It seems their social security was awarded only two months ago, which means they're either a new citizen, or this is a case of identity fraud."

"You want me to check it out?"

"No." Finch tucked the paperwork into a folder. "I have another case for you. You and Miss Krause."

* * *

"Let this be a lesson," Reese lectured sternly to the frightened boy cowering behind him. Little Nico had wanted to make some quick money and unfortunately turned to delinquency in his desperation. "Stay away from organized crime."

The child nodded shakily before taking off down the street.

Reese kicked the last of the street gang unconscious just as his cellphone rang. "Hey, Finch. Took care of the kid. These punks won't mess with him anymore—Natasha? _Natasha?_ Stop. Put him down! _"_

"Need I remind you," Finch hastily cut in, "that her cover name is Naum?"

Reese wasn't listening. "I already told you," he continued to reprimand, "killing isn't in our policy. Put him down, _now_. I see the syringe in your hand. Give it to me. It's no use, I've already seen it. Hand it over. _I don't care if it's just a sedative!_ "

"Mr. Reese?" Harold admitted wearily. "I can see you have your hands full at the moment, but I'm afraid I may have acted rather rashly regarding our latest number. I'd like you to meet me at the library as soon as possible. There's something we need to discuss."

* * *

"Ohhhhhh, I see." Kitty indignantly eyed the child in Harold's arms. All of her sarcasm had a sharper bite to it, making her seem genuinely upset. "I steal a few wallets, and _I'm_ the moral scum of the earth. _You_ steal a baby, and I'm supposed to look up to you as an ethical figurehead? Unbelievable."

"It was never my intention to kidnap her," Finch admitted. "But there were kidnappers on their way to take her to God knows where, and . . . I panicked."

Kitty crossed her arms defensively. "So, your solution to stop a kidnapping was to kidnap her yourself?"

Reese reached out and brushed a tiny strand of Leila's hair out of her eyes. "I think the question we all should be asking is . . . who would want to kill an infant?"

"Maybe she's the perpetrator," Kitty offered.

Finch and Reese simultaneously turned to look quizzically in her direction.

Kitty pointed a finger at them. "Don't vote it out as a possibility. Babies are completely unpredictable creatures."

* * *

"For the last time," Finch asked nervously, "are you _sure_ you don't mind watching her?"

Reese had left to investigate possible perpetrators, and Finch had only recently discovered their urgent need for baby supplies after Kitty pointed out Leila's diaper needed changing. The problem was that Finch didn't fully trust Kitty with the baby, but he also couldn't bring Leila with him shopping due to an Amber Alert issued an hour ago.

It was easiest if Kitty picked up the needed supplies, but that would have meant Harold would be unable to meet with Detective Carter and explain his actions in person, and right now a phone call simply wouldn't suit the situation. Carter was stressed enough working Moretti's number by keeping him safe from his vengeful son Elias. While the rest of them focused on solving Leila's case, Finch would let the detective know the child was safe.

Kitty finished stacking interlocked books around baby Leila to keep her trapped in a small area of the library, ducking down low every time the baby squawked happily. "Yes, Harold," she said. "We'll be fine."

Finch exited the library and headed through the darkened streets to his car. Once inside, he noticed a small note taped to his stereo.

 _I fixed it. Sorry._

 _—Kitty_

Finch turned the key in the ignition, and music began to play through the car speakers as clearly as it had before Kitty destroyed it. For a few moments Harold felt intensely sorry for constantly thinking bad thoughts about the woman. Sure, she was obtrusive, obnoxious, and at times insufferable, but everyone had their faults, and Finch had no doubt that she had a good heart.

His smile slowly wavered as he pushed each of the controls on the radio. The buttons to change stations and the volume nob were both unresponsive. Text appeared that read _Now Playing: Song 1 of CD 1_

"No, no, _no!_ " Harold commanded, but nothing he pressed would stop Lil Jon from telling him to _Get Low._ Kitty had reprogrammed it somehow—jammed it or completely rewired it, he wasn't quite sure—and the only way to get this infernal noise to stop would be to disconnect the entire radio from the car's power by completely dismantling it. It was an easy feat, but he had neither the time nor the resources to do it right this second.

Unable to shut off the volume, Harold Finch dug his nails into the steering wheel, rolled up his windows, and drove to the grocery store while " _My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard, and they're like, it's better than yours. Damn right, it's better than yours. I could teach you, but I have to charge_ " began blasting through his speakers.

* * *

Finch had tried his best to explain the situation to Carter, and although she was furious at first, she wasn't unreasonable. Carter promised to help them as best she could, in the interest of saving the adorable child. Grabbing diapers, baby food, and other assorted items, Harold hastily made his purchases and raced back to the library as his CD player blared Fergie's _London Bridge._

Head throbbing from Kitty's CD selection, Harold pushed against the door leading back into the library and sluggishly began the ascent up the stairs. A wretched cry—half pain, half terror—bounded in from down the hallway. Brown grocery bags in hand, Harold took the steps as quickly as he could, pushing past the pain and discomfort until he finally reached the upstairs portion of the library.

Panting profusely, Harold searched for the source of the noise just as Kitty appeared with baby Leila in her arms.

"Harold," Kitty stated calmly, "your tiny human has taken my phalange hostage. Her hunger cannot be satiated, and she has resorted to cannibalism in her desperation."

Leila had both hands wrapped around Kitty's thumb as she suckled it with a contented gurgle.

"Eyyyeck," Kitty snarled. "Please unclamp her jaws."

"Is she alright?" Harold gasped, still trying to steady his breathing. He sloppily deposited the groceries onto his desk and limped over to inspect Leila's wellbeing for himself. He was more than slightly annoyed to find her perfectly unscathed. In fact, the child was smiling contently.

"Of course she's alright," Kitty snapped. " _I'm_ the one who's not alright. She's got my thumb in a death grip between her gums. Saliva _everywhere._ "

Harold's back still ached from the uncomfortable position he fell asleep in last night, and this—paired with Kitty's CD stunt—wasn't helping his mood. "Here," he huffed, "I brought her some food."

"Chicken and prunes?" Kitty's nose crinkled as she inspected the small glass container of mashed nourishment. "Harold, I wouldn't eat this if I was drunk and starving."

"Thank goodness the world does not revolve around you," Harold retorted, snatching the jar away. "What do you say, Leila? You want some delicious Gerber blend?"

"You make it sound so appetizing."

Ignoring Kitty's sarcastic remarks, Finch reached out to pull Leila into his own arms.

Kitty flinched away and took a step backwards. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Feeding her," said Finch.

"I can feed her."

"Miss Krause, you just complained about how she's eating you alive. I think it would be best if—"

"I can feed her," Kitty affirmed. She seemed to bristle until her entire demeanor screamed _do not touch either of us_. Her hold on the child tightened slightly, and the defensive look on her face did not go unnoticed by Finch.

"Alright," he relented slowly. "Just . . . be careful. I don't want her to choke."

Kitty plopped down on her dog mat, scooping Leila into her lap. "You don't want disgusting chicken and prunes, right? How about some delicious—" Kitty picked through the jars of food. "Bananas. Everyone loves bananas."

Taking a much needed seat at his desk, Finch dialed John. "Mr. Reese?"

"Yeah, Finch?"

Harold's eyes wandered down to the dog mat. It took a concentrated effort not to laugh when Kitty spooned mashed bananas into Leila's mouth, only to have the baby mush it back out from between her lips. "I'm looking at the hospital's records, and it seems they received a generous donation of $10,000 when Leila arrived, and they've received $10,000 every month since."

"Who's the donor?" asked Reese.

"Anonymous, but I'm sending the hospital a strongly worded email from the IRS. Hopefully, I can scare them into giving me the name."

"Carter find out anything new about Elias?"

"No. But Moretti has been placed under police protection for now. Not sure what good that will do," Finch added under his breath. "She was most worried about Leila's whereabouts, and rightfully so. She seemed a little . . . apprehensive that I had left the baby in your care."

"But you didn't leave the baby in my care, Finch."

"Granted, I wasn't sure how she'd take the news that Leila was not in the care of a retired CIA officer, but rather a retired . . . whatever it was Miss Krause used to do."

"Speaking of which, how's our baby doing?"

"Oh, she's—" Finch stopped abruptly. Kitty and Leila were no longer on the dog bed. In fact, they were no longer in the room.

"Finch?"

"Just a second." Panicked, Finch muted his earpiece and called out for Natasha. She didn't answer.

"Don't tell me you lost the baby, Finch."

"She's not lost," Harold confirmed weakly. "She's with Miss Krause."

"Finch, that's _worse_ in my book!"

"They were right next to me just a second ago. They couldn't have gotten far. I'm looking for them. Hold on." Harold hurried through the library, searching each study room and hallway, until he finally rounded the corner and found them both. Kitty was seated on the floor of one of the study cubbies. Leila was resting against her chest, grasping at her shirt and chewing hungrily on her tie.

"—just me, my wits, and an AK-47," said Kitty as she popped open a jar of chicken and prunes. "The fight didn't last very long, and that's how I lost life number four. It was a total waste, if you ask me. Do you want to hear about the time I joined the circus?"

Leila lost interest in the tie and returned to chewing on Natasha's thumb.

Kitty smiled affectionately, even after Leila unleashed a mouthful of drool all over Kitty's hand. "I'm not here to judge," Kitty crooned, "but wouldn't you rather have some real food? If you want chicken and prunes, you can have your disgusting processed meat-fruit."

Leila released Kitty's hand and shrieked nonsense in response.

Natasha bent her head back and laughed into the open air. "Well, now, there's no need for that sort of language."

Finch watched in secret as Kitty spooned some food into Leila's mouth. This time, instead of mushing it back out, Leila smacked her gums and opened her mouth for more. Natasha's niece would be about Leila's age right now, wherever she was. Knowing how protective Kitty was of the whereabouts of her niece, and the great lengths she had gone to ensure her location stayed a secret, it was obvious Kitty felt very strongly about protecting people she cared about.

Amused at the sight, Finch suppressed a smile as Kitty continuously plucked Leila back into her lap every time the baby tried to crawl away to explore. Concluding that the safest place for Leila to be was exactly where she was, Finch silently retreated back to his desk and continued his research.

The peace and quiet didn't last long.

"HAROLD!" Kitty's horrified screams echoed down the hall. " _HAROLD!_ The fuck is this? HELP!" Before Finch could push himself up out of his chair, Kitty burst into the room. "Harold, something's wrong with her skin!"

Finch squinted at the tiny red bump on Leila's chin. "It looks like a hive."

Kitty clutched Leila protectively to her chest. " _WHY?_ "

"It's nothing to be frightened of, Miss Krause. She had a small hive on her chin when I first brought her home from the hospital. There are many causes—"

"Look it up," Kitty ordered. "Look it up, now. She could be allergic to bananas, or chicken, or prunes! Maybe we should go back to the hospital. What if she needs an EpiPen? You said she had a hive while you were at the hospital?" Natasha thought of something and blanched. "Harold . . . what if she's _diseased?_ "

Harold sighed, ordered Natasha to take a seat on her dog cushion, and brought up WebMD.

* * *

 _2012, Coney Island, New York_

"You sure about this, Boss?"

Elias turned to look at his lieutenant. "Do you have any misgivings about my plans? Please, I would love to hear them."

"I don't know," Scarface replied. "Something just doesn't add up. If she's done half the things that Russian scumbag said she did—" He paused to shrug. "I just think this girl might be more trouble than she's worth."

"That's exactly why I'd like to have a conversation with her. Get to know her better. She sounds like a very interesting young woman."

"Whatever you say, Boss. But how're we gonna arrange a meeting? None of our guys have seen or heard from her since those Russian asshats botched their abduction months ago."

"We don't need to find _her,_ my friend." Elias turned to watch a gull swoop down to the sandy shore below and snatch a fry from an unsuspecting beachgoer. "We just need to find my old pal John."

* * *

 _2012, New York City_

"Harold?"

Finch jolted awake. His glasses had left red imprints on his cheeks, and he had to adjust them before taking in his surroundings. "Natasha?"

"I'm sorry to wake you, but I have a question." Kitty stood very close to his chair. Baby Leila was strapped to her chest, fast asleep. "I know you said this credit card was for emergencies only, but I'm really hungry. Is it okay if I use it?"

"I suppose that constitutes as an emergency." _What time is it?_ Harold checked his watch and exhaled with exhaustion. Morning was a long ways away.

"Okay, good," Kitty beamed, "because I went grocery shopping online, and I need your help unloading the taxi that just pulled up."

Still struggling to wake up, Harold grunted, "What?"

"I paid him a little extra to do some late-night shopping for me. Don't worry," Kitty explained. "I didn't give him this address. He should be parked down the street. Can you help me bring in the groceries?"

Harold had never wanted to sleep more in his life than he did at this very moment. It was only during sleep that the full weight of his injury finally ceased to exist. This was two nights in a row that he had fallen asleep at his desk, and the pain was becoming more than even he could bear. "I don't think I'll be of much help," he admitted. "How about you give me Leila, and I watch over her while you bring in the groceries?"

* * *

"What . . . on . . . _earth?"_

"What?" Kitty hefted another bag over the top of the stairs. "I thought we established that I like chocolate milk."

"I certainly hope that's true," Finch wheezed, "considering you bought eighteen gallons worth."

He watched as the girl flew past him, taking the steps in stride and promptly disappearing around the corner of the hallway. In no time at all, she was back to retrieve three more bags before floating back down the hallway like an autumn leaf. Finch picked up the last gallon of milk with his free hand. Unsurprisingly, by the time Finch carried Leila and the milk gallon back to his computer monitors, Kitty was already provocatively seated at the edge of his desk, legs crossed. Her suit jacket was folded neatly and tucked under the desk, next to the tight piece of fabric she used to bind her breasts flat.

Dropping the last of the heavy gallons at the base of his desk, Finch exhaled heavily, thoroughly winded from the long walk from the stairs to his desk. "How exactly are we supposed to keep these cold? In case you haven't noticed, the library did not come equipped with a fridge."

"Don't worry your pretty little sideburned head about it, Finch." Leila was already back in Kitty's care, strapped to her chest, sound asleep. "I can probably knock out five or six of these in the next hour."

"Please don't take that as a personal challenge," he begged on his way back to his seat. "I don't want to have to clean up vomit." Finch lightly tapped his knuckles against her crossed knees. "Off."

Kitty slid off his desk in one fluid motion and landed gracefully on the dog pillow.

Morning was hours away, and it was already shaping up to be a long night. Harold checked and rechecked for correspondence from the hospital, but they had yet to respond to his fake IRS threat. Until the hospital provided a name, they had no leads on who wanted to harm Leila. The only solace came from the fact that Leila was sleeping soundly through the night, snuggled up against Kitty's chest.

"They're finally good for something."

Finch blinked away an intense wave of drowsiness and swiveled in his chair to avoid having to turn his neck. "Pardon?"

"Babies really enjoy using them as pillows." Kitty pointed at her ample bosom. She sounded annoyed, but her affectionate gaze and the gentle way in which she caressed the back of Leila's delicate skull contradicted her tone.

Harold's eyes immediately traveled to Leila, but the infant had snuggled as tightly between Kitty's breasts as she could, so this only forced him to politely look away from the incredibly stressed buttons of Kitty's dress shirt that now barely held the garment closed. In his haste to look away, he jerked his shoulders too hard. Inhaling sharply, Finch made a mental note to ask for stronger pain medication the next time he saw a doctor.

"What happened to your spine?"

Keeping his eyes on his monitor, Finch replied, "What?"

"You limp," Kitty observed. "And you never turn your neck if you can avoid it. What happened? Car accident? Fell off the roof? Did you get impaled by the horns of a rabid bull?"

"Do you ever stop asking impertinent questions?" Finch hadn't meant to sound quite so vindictive, but his sharp words caused Kitty to retreat and fall silent. She turned away from him. It didn't take long for Finch's guilt to start eating him alive. "I'm sorry I snapped at you. I haven't had a peaceful nights sleep in a very long time. And," he added, "I didn't exactly appreciate what you did to my radio."

Harold's words had the effect he had hoped for, and Kitty shifted back to look at him. "You didn't like it?" she complained, pouting her bottom lip. "I spent hours making you the perfect mix."

"I especially didn't enjoy how you disabled my ability to switch between stations, songs, or CD's."

"That was for your own good. You have to listen to the songs in order," said Kitty. "It's mood music."

"Oh, is _that_ what you call it?" Finch mumbled sarcastically. "What mood did you expect it to put me in?"

Kitty was quiet for so long, Finch half expected to turn and find her asleep on her cushion. When he did turn, he found her staring at him somberly, eyes full of unhappiness. "Why won't you let me help you?" she asked sadly.

"Miss Krause," he began wearily, "while I appreciate both your concern and your offer of assistance, I'm afraid you can't help me. My injury requires much more than reflexology to relieve it."

"I studied physical therapy intensely when I was in China. I thought I could use it to help Mildred recover from stressed muscles after each of her ballet recitals." Kitty tried to smile at the memory, but all she could manage was a grimace. "Turned out to be another useless skill to add to my ever-growing collection. I suppose that's what I've become these days . . . useless."

"Please, Natasha," Finch scolded calmly. "Self-deprecation does not suit you."

"Do you think I'm evil?" Kitty whispered. "Is that why you won't let me help you?"

Harold knit his eyebrows in confusion. "What are you talking about?"

"My mother thought I was evil. That's why she sold me to the Siberian Volki. She didn't want me anywhere near Mildred. Mildred was the good child. I was the evil doppelgänger."

"Why do you say that?"

"Sometimes I think I never really was a child." Kitty pulled her legs up to her chest and wrapped her arms around her knees, cocooning Leila completely. "Other children disliked me, so I disliked them back. My mother thought this meant I was crazy. She kept sending me to psychiatric care." Kitty's sad expression had hardened into a seething frown. "Do you know how degrading it is to have people constantly tell you you're _broken_ and they need to _fix_ you?"

Finch listened patiently as Kitty ranted more about her mother. He learned about all the instances in which Mrs. Krause had tried to help, but only made the situation worse. Finch wondered if the story would have a very different conclusion if told by Mrs. Krause herself—if only the woman hadn't been assassinated.

"What was your mother like, Harold?"

Finch sniffed and tapped an uncomfortable finger against the desk. "I never knew my mother," he confided before he could stop himself. "She died a few hours after I was born."

"Oh." Kitty reached up and began stroking the top of Leila's head. "I'm sorry."

"Sometimes people die," he said, watching for her reaction, "and there's nothing we can do to stop it. And to answer your previous question, no. I don't think you're evil."

Kitty raised her head, looking confused and hopeful. "You don't?"

"No," he answered. "I think you're lonely."

A _ping_ alerted Finch that he'd just received an email from the hospital. Reading through the information provided, Finch researched the name attached to the Federal Tax ID the hospital provided. Bringing up the man's social platforms, he enlarged a photo depicting the man standing next to his wife and son.

"Mr. Reese?"

"Yes, Finch?"

"Please return here at your earliest convenience." Finch smiled sidelong at Kitty, who had risen up on her knees to better see the photo on the screen. "We have a lead."

* * *

Detective Carter drove over to the sidewalk and pulled out her ringing cellphone. "Detective Carter," she answered.

A woman's soft voice came over the line. "Yes, Detective? This is nurse Carla. We spoke at the hospital? I . . . I have some information for you. About Leila."

Sitting up in her seat, Carter's focus intensified. "Yes? I'm listening."

* * *

After receiving a very informative call from Carter, Harold began researching employees of the hospital donor with the initials _C.C._ According to the nurse who spoke with Detective Carter, Leila was dropped off at the hospital with a tiny silver bracelet with _C.C._ engraved in it. Harold brought up a picture of a young woman, Claudia Cruz, and dialed John to ask him to keep an eye on their latest suspect.

"Natasha?" Finch called after he hung up with Reese. "Natasha?"

A loud bang, followed by Leila's unmistakable shriek, echoed down the hall. Finch's calls became slightly more frantic the closer he got to the place where Natasha had set up a makeshift playpen. As he rounded the corner, he heard Kitty shouting, "No, reptilian fiend! What did the Japanese ever do to you? Stop this senseless destruction! Stop, in the name of the law!"

Leila was dressed in a bright green tyrannosaurus rex costume that covered her head to toe. Kitty continuously hoisted the baby in the air, using her as a wrecking ball to knock over various stacks of things. As soon as she noticed Finch had entered the room, Natasha froze, hovering Leila over a neatly stacked pile of books. Without prompting, Leila lashed out with a costumed foot, striking the stack and making the books topple over and spill across the floor. Thrilled with her accomplishment, Leila thrashed her arms in victory and let out a joyous giggle.

Puzzled to find the child dressed as a dinosaur, Finch asked, "Miss Krause, what are you doing?"

"Terrorizing Tokyo."

Finch honestly couldn't think of what to say. "Where did you get that costume?"

"I bought it for her while you were out." Natasha watched as Finch's eyes widened. She'd gone a little overboard with her purchases, and now the room was covered in toys. But she couldn't help herself. Every toy she came across in the store looked like something Leila would enjoy, so she bought it. "Don't worry, Harold. I used my own wages and not your credit card."

Leila crawled across the floor and tugged on Finch's shoes.

"No, no, no," Kitty scolded lightly, "you don't want to play with that. It hasn't been properly sanitized yet." Producing a spray bottle out of seemingly nowhere, Kitty began spritzing disinfectant on all of the items within Leila's reach.

"Miss Krause," said Finch, remembering what he originally called her for. "I need you to get dressed in your suit and come with me. We're going to meet with Detective Carter."

* * *

The crisp spring day was cool enough to warrant a panic attack on Kitty's behalf. After dressing Leila in two pairs of tights, a baby turtleneck, and a tiny parka, she'd also tugged on four pairs of socks, a beanie, a pair of baby sunglasses, and a thin layer of special formula baby sunscreen. "I don't want her developing melanoma," Kitty explained as she walked alongside Finch to meet with Detective Carter.

Finch shook his head, amused. "I doubt she'll develop cancer in the twenty minutes we're outside."

Two women approached from out of the park and stopped in front of Kitty. "Oooo," they cooed in union. "Look at her. Such a sweetheart. Look at those cheeks."

"Get away from my tiny human!" Kitty barked furiously. "Don't you dare touch either of us! You haven't been disinfected!"

Harold intervened by positioning himself between Leila's carrier and the confused women. "I'm sorry, ladies. We're in a hurry, if you wouldn't mind." Harold turned to frown at Natasha as the two women wandered off. "There was no need to be rude."

"They were trying to touch my baby without even asking."

"Miss Krause," Harold whispered, "Leila is not your baby."

"Sure she is," Natasha refuted. "She projectile vomited on my chest this morning and claimed me as her own. With all due respect, Harold, you do not possess the authority to sever this sacred union. Besides, at the end of the day, her parents don't want her, so I've decided to adopt her."

"We don't even know who her parents really are."

Reese entered the conversation seamlessly, arriving from out of thin air. "I can tell you who her parents are _not_. Or, at least who her father is not."

Finch started at John's abrupt appearance. "Mr. Reese, glad you could join us. We're just about to meet with Detective Carter."

As soon as Carter spotted the three of them, a sinking feeling started in her stomach. "You have a lot of nerve bringing Leila out in the open like this. Every cop in the city is looking for her." Carter glanced up at the man carrying Leila. "Who's this?"

"Nathan," Kitty answered and extended a hand for Carter to shake.

"Naum," Finch corrected.

"Naum is my slave name," said Kitty. "Nathan is my American name."

Carter stared at the both of them. "What?"

"This is another associate of mine," Finch explained.

"How's little Leila been doing?" Carter reached out to stroke the child's cheek, but Kitty pulled back.

"Hands please," Kitty ordered.

Carter shot Finch a puzzled look and held out her hands. Kitty whipped out an unmarked aerosol can and sprayed a cool mist over Carter's gloves.

"Proceed," said Kitty.

* * *

"I like her. She has a pretty smile."

Finch caught Reese's dismissive eye roll as Kitty continued to discuss her thoughts regarding her first meeting with Detective Carter. The three of them made their way down the streets of New York, searching for dinner.

"I see why you like her, John," Kitty continued. "Isn't she single? You need to get on that boat before it sets sail and leaves the harbor. Just, whatever you do . . . don't play chess in front of her."

"I would stop talking if I were you."

"Can you two please give it a rest?" Finch interrupted. "You're worse than children."

"Do you guys want Italian for dinner? I know a really great place." Kitty bounced Leila in her carrier. "It's not too far from here."

The closer they got to the restaurant, the closer Finch got to Reese. It was darkening, and if Finch was completely honest with himself, this was not the safest area in the city, and he felt intimidated.

"Aw, damnit," Kitty exclaimed when they reached a boarded up shop. "Why do all the good food joints get shut down?"

Finch was about to request a respectable restaurant about two blocks down the road when a white SUV pulled into the deserted parking lot. The vehicle spun around and stopped in front of the group, cutting off their view of the main road. A tinted window rolled down, revealing Elias' lieutenant.

"John," he called out the open window. "My boss would like a word with you."

"What about?" John hadn't heard from Elias since he unknowingly saved his life after mistaking him for an innocent schoolteacher. There was no telling how many men he currently had working for him—how many men John would have to protect Finch, Kitty, and Leila from—and his trigger finger began to itch.

"A young woman last seen in your care," stated Scarface. "Russian fugitive. Goes by the name Mildred Krause."

Reese quickly caught Kitty's eyes, trying his best to keep her from admitting her true identity. Both her arms were wrapped protectively around Leila's carrier, and she was already slightly crouched, eyes wide and observant of all the viewpoints around her.

"I'm afraid I can't help you." Reese looked back at Scarface, blank-faced and calm. "Haven't seen her in months."

"All the same," the man continued, "my boss would like a word, so I'd be much appreciative if you got in the car."

There were more men in the parking lot. Kitty could see them crouching in the shadows between buildings and behind shrubs. Memories of previous ambushes increased her heart rate. A ringing pounded through her skull, and a sinking feeling in her gut told her she needed to leave this place, and she needed to leave now.

In the blink of an eye, Kitty had scaled the abandoned restaurant and vaulted off the other side, landing smoothly on the pavement. She'd done this before—granted, never with a six-month-old strapped to her chest—and with every memory of capture and torture her feet pounded harder against the pavement, bringing her closer to the buildings she was so familiar with climbing. There were gunshots behind her, or maybe they were only the ghosts of bullets that had once been shot at her, she wasn't sure, and she didn't care.

Kitty ran as hard and as fast as she had the day she left Shanghai.

* * *

 _2012, Brooklyn_

Icy winds whipped against Kitty's tear-stained face. She had unzipped her jacket and pulled it around Leila to keep the baby from freezing. Kitty's breath came out in thick white puffs each time she let out a terrified sob, and her entire body shivered, but not from the cold.

Half of her wanted to remain ignorant of Finch and Reese's fate. Kitty had no idea if they were dead or alive, and the thought of finding out made her so sick she retched. She'd managed to pickpocket a cellphone before choosing her final hiding spot, so she took out the stolen device and punched in the number with unsteady fingers. She was already crying when Finch answered.

"Who is this?"

"Harold?" she managed to stammer through her tears.

" _Natasha?_ " he practically shrieked. Finch sank in his seat, sweet relief flowing through him. "Oh, thank God. Are you safe? Is Leila safe?" It took Finch a moment to realize the muffled noise on the end of the line meant she was crying. "Natasha?"

"I'm sorry." Kitty coughed violently, but the tears still came. "I'm sorry I left you behind, Harold."

"No, Natasha," Finch soothed. "You did good. You did what needed to be done to get Leila to a safe place. Are you sure both of you are safe?"

"We're okay," she repeated over and over in a mantra. "We're okay. We're okay."

"Natasha," Finch asked steadily to ensure her panic did not worsen. "Where are you? I can drive you both to a safehouse. Just tell me where you are."

"Okay," she whispered. "Please . . . don't be angry."

"Why would I be angry?" Finch frowned. "Natasha, where are you?"

"The Brooklyn Bridge."

"Why would I be—" Finch froze mid-sentence, the hairs on his neck already standing on end. As calmly as he could, Finch asked, "Are you on top of one of the towers of the Brooklyn Bridge?"

"Yes."

Finch closed his eyes and allowed himself a moment to gather his thoughts. "Okay, Natasha, listen to me. This is important. Are you listening?"

"I'm listening."

"I do not want you climbing down the tower while you're in this emotional state. We're going to do some deep breathing to calm you down."

Kitty hated panic attacks more than anything—they robbed her of her mind; they made it near impossible to think clearly; they made her irrational, but listening to Finch's smooth voice instructing her to breathe made it easier to cope. "Thank you."

"I know it goes without saying," said Finch, "but please be careful while climbing down the tower, Natasha. I'll be there as soon as I can to pick you up."

* * *

 _2012, Brooklyn_

Harold rested a hand lightly on Natasha's shoulder. "For the last time . . . this was not your fault."

"Those men were looking for me, Harold. They only took John because they want me. Just like how the Russians abducted Bonnie to get to me. Harold, my twin is dead because they thought she was me. I'm not supposed to exist." Kitty looked up from her hands and turned to face him. "Don't you understand? People who associate with me always end up dead. It was sheer dumb luck that we were able to save Bonnie, but what about John?"

Finch reached out to stop her when she headed for the front door of their safehouse. "Where do you think you're going?"

"To get John back," she answered.

"And how do you plan to do that? They smashed his cellphone. We don't know where they took him. He could be literally anywhere in New York right now." The look on Kitty's face made Finch release his hold in her arm.

"Watch over Leila," Kitty ordered.

* * *

 _2012, Brooklyn_

Kitty pulled on her favorite dress and pair of stilettos. Pretending to be a man for so long had come with some feminine setbacks, including an urgent need to shave her legs, her armpits, and pluck her eyebrows. The wig she purchased from a nearby store sat perfectly arranged on her head. The wig hair was still warm from the curling iron she used to style it. "I should have bought one of these months ago," she complained while fluffing it. "I look fabulous. Can you believe this is actual human hair?"

 _WHY ARE YOU ALTERING YOUR APPEARANCE AGAIN?_

Kitty made sure everything from her makeup to the slightest waves in her wig were perfect before turning away from the mirror to face the computer screen. "Mildred, it's time to come out of retirement."

 _WHY?_

"John is in trouble, and it's my fault. The problem is . . . I don't know where he's being kept. I need your help."

 _THIS IS NOT A GOOD IDEA_

 _PHYSICAL RISK VERSUS EMOTIONAL REWARD RATIO IS TOO LOW_

"Mildred, what the hell are you talking about?"

The computer brought up a long list of people entitled "Percentage of Emotional Importance to Natasha." The first few names read:

 _Peregrine Krause 43.9%_

 _Leila Smith 18.6%_

 _Harold Finch 14.2%_

 _Grace Hendricks 13.8%_

 _Lionel Fusco 3.2%_

 _John Reese 2.2%_

 _Joss Carter 2.1%_

Kitty's mouth slowly fell open. "You've been ranking my friends in a list of importance to my emotional health?"

 _WHY ARE YOU ANGRY?_

"That's fucked up, Mildred."

 _HOW?_

"You can't rank life in order of importance. That's bias. Bias is bad."

 _BIAS IS HUMAN_

"Yeah? Well, sometimes human nature is wrong. And why the hell is John ranked so low? 2.2% . . . _really?_ "

 _I CAN SEE I HAVE NOT CHANGED YOUR MIND_

 _YOU STILL PLAN ON RESCUING JOHN_

"Of course I do," Kitty confirmed. "He would do the same for me."

 _AM I STILL INVITED?_

"Don't act coy," Kitty snapped. "I know you've wanted nothing more than to roam around the city since we got here."

 _WHAT DO YOU NEED ME TO DO?_

"Find where they're keeping John. These people want to talk to me?" Kitty strapped syringes to the garter belt high up on her legs. "Let's have a nice, civil conversation."


	13. You Killed My Father, Prepare To Die

**If there's anything specific that you'd like to see happen in this fic at some point, leave a review, and I'll try my very best to fit it in.** **I've been getting some interesting requests for Root to seductively spoon-feed Kitty ice-cream (LOL). If it makes me laugh, I'll probably use it ;)**

 ** _YOU GUYS WANTED STONED HAROLD, SO I DELIVERED. ENJOY._**

* * *

 _1994, Wetzlar Germany_

 _Kitty loved birds._

 _On evenings such as this, she enjoyed sitting out on an old log close to her house and watching as birds flew over the tall mountains near the village. They made it look so simple—flying. Of course, Kitty knew people had already learned to fly, in a way. There were gliders and airplanes and such, but humans could not fly unassisted._

 _Surely the secret to flight was hidden inside the birds._

 _Her net trap sprung. The mute swan trapped within a tangle of rope let out a strangled call for help, but Kitty smashed its head in with a rock before it could cause a scene._

* * *

 _As the day ended, Mrs. Krause finished cooking dinner and called for her girls to come eat. Mildred appeared and sat at the table._

 _"Where is your sister?"_

 _Mildred danced in her seat. "She went outside to watch the birds."_

 _Mrs. Krause wiped her hands on her apron and wandered the garden in search of Natasha. Spotting her daughter out by the small pond, Mrs. Krause called for her, stopping short when she saw what was strewn all over the ground._

 _Kitty had completely gutted the mute swan, but the secret to flight was still a mystery to her. Each meaty organ lay in its own little pile in some sort of organized pattern. Natasha noticed her mother's presence and lifted up a liver, blood dripping down her pale arms. "Mama," Kitty asked, hoping her mother could assist in her experiment, "what's this do?"_

 _Mrs. Krause was frozen in place, equal parts revolted and horrified to find her four-year-old tightly grasping a long-bladed knife. This wasn't the first time Natasha had made the blood drain from her face. There were times when Mrs. Krause would find her burning plants with a magnifying glass, poking their milk cow's leg with a sharp stick until she bled, throwing rocks at their neighbor's cat, but nothing had ever been this violent before. Nothing had ever resulted in the death of a living thing. "Natasha, why would you do this?"_

 _Kitty looked up at her mother, confused as to why she was so upset. "I wondered what it looked like inside," she answered flatly._

 _Mrs. Krause's face bunched up in agony, her mouth emitting small bursts of what sounded like angry sobs. "What," she hissed between her teeth, "is wrong with you?"_

 _"I just wanted to learn how to fly, mama."_

 _"Get in the house," Mrs. Krause whispered hoarsely. "Put that knife down, and go back in the house, Natasha."_

 _Kitty picked up the swan by its neck._

 _"No!" Mrs. Krause snapped. "Leave the bird. Go back in the house."_

* * *

 _It was well into the night, and Kitty still couldn't sleep. Her mind filled with possible reasons why the bird experiment had made her mother so upset. She didn't enjoy making her mother upset, and she wanted to fully understand the reasoning behind it to ensure it didn't happen again._

 _After so many hours of thought, her mouth went dry, and her head ached, so she scooted out of bed and headed to the kitchen for a glass of water._

 _Halfway down the hall she heard muffled noises. As she rounded the corner leading to the kitchen, she realized the muffled sounds were coming from her mother. Mrs. Krause was bent over the kitchen table, weeping uncontrollably into her hands._

 _The sight disturbed Natasha for reasons she couldn't explain. Kitty had never cried before, but she had seen her mother and sister do so on occasion—Mildred far more often than Mrs. Krause—and Kitty had concluded that it was a bad thing. Worried that her mother wouldn't be able to stop on her own, Kitty walked forward with her arms stiffly stretched out in front of her. From what she had gathered from interactions in the village, the secret to stop someone from crying was to hug them. It made no sense to Kitty, but it was worth a try._

 _But as she shuffled closer, her little arms outstretched like Frankenstein's monster, Mrs. Krause heard footsteps and looked up from her hands. Her eyes were bright red from crying, but all Natasha noticed was that she was screaming. Hands on her chest, Mrs. Krause leapt up from her chair at the table and pushed back against the countertop, letting free a shriek of utter terror._

 _Kitty looked over her shoulder, wondering what great evil had come up behind her, but there was nothing. When she turned to look back at her mother, Kitty realized that she was the object of Mrs. Krause's fear. Although she had stopped screeching, her mother still had one hand raised as if to defend herself._

 _Kitty dropped her arms and walked back to her room, the glass of water long forgotten._

 _Mildred was fast asleep in the bed beside her own. Each breath puffed her cheeks out a little. She was dressed in the same nightgown as Natasha—a light pink dress their aunt had hand-sewn for them last Christmas. Kitty stood at the edge of the bed and watched her sleep, calmed by the knowledge that her sister was in a place no one could hurt her._

 _Compelled by an intense need for companionship, Kitty climbed into bed beside Mildred. Her sister shifted closer, never quite waking, and settled against Natasha's shoulder. Kitty wrapped an arm around Mildred, clinging to her sister for dear life._

* * *

 _2012, Coney Island, New York_

"You see, John," Elias continued calmly, "I'm a man of simple tastes. Fine wine. Good food. Interesting conversation . . . You haven't touched your dinner, John. Don't like ravioli? Made it myself from scratch—"

The door at the far end of the room opened with a scrape, and Anthony led Kitty into the room at gunpoint as he rubbed aggressively at the claw marks she left on his cheek. Her cardinal-red dress covered most of the markings on her shoulders and spine, but the tattoos on the backs of her thighs peeked out enough for the rest of Elias' crew to scrutinize. As Kitty approached the table, one of the men near the back of the room whistled.

Elias checked his watch and smiled. "That took a little longer than expected, but it's lovely to meet you all the same. I must say, your reputation precedes you, Miss Krause."

Ignoring his comments, Kitty pulled up a chair next to Reese and pointed at his untouched plate. "Are you going to eat that? I'm starved." Without waiting for an answer, she slid the plate in front of her and shoveled in a mouthful of ravioli. "Carl, your hideout is disappointing, but your cooking skills are a ten. Bravo."

"May I ask how you happened upon this place?"

"I don't have very many friends," she answered in-between mouthfuls, "so when I find someone I tolerate . . . I get a little overprotective. And by overprotective I mean I stalk them relentlessly and keep constant tabs on their whereabouts. John just so happens to have made that incredibly small list, so I'd appreciate if you let him go."

"Just like that?" Elias smiled, amused. "Why would I let John go?"

"Because I've poisoned your friend." Kitty waved an elegantly manicured hand at the four puffy claw marks trailing down Anthony's cheek. "Little known fact, but I'm rather fond of sharpening my nails to a point and coating them in poison. Believe it or not that _isn't_ why I'm called Kitty." She stomped a high-healed foot on the table exposing the majority of her leg. "I'm afraid he doesn't have much time. Maybe twenty minutes, tops." A small mummer began to buzz in the room as she pulled at a garter strap with a sharp slap against her upper thigh and smiled coyly at the men. "But it's your lucky day, Carl. Two of these syringes contain poisons twice as lethal as the one currently pumping through your dear friend's bloodstream, and the third contains an antidote. I'll even let you pick which one you want to try first."

Elias reclined in his leather chair. "You certainly don't disappoint, Miss Krause. Do you mind if I call you Mildred?"

"Let him go," said Kitty, nodding in John's direction, "and you can call me whatever you want. I'll even disclose which of the three vials I brought is the antidote."

"Or," Anthony countered with a gun pointed at her face, "I could just shoot you and take my chances."

"You could," she answered, turning her full attention back to the ravioli, "but it wouldn't work in your favor. I'm only on life seven. And," Kitty added, "there's a bomb strapped to my chest rigged to detonate should any of you try to kill me. Have I not mentioned that yet?"

Anthony glared at the girl, but he saw no signs of a bomb underneath her tight dress. Nevertheless, if the stories were to be believed, she was telling the truth. "Are you out of your damn mind?"

Kitty widened her eyes. "Yes, actually. Very much so."

The mummer in the room blossomed into a much louder buzz until Elias raised a steady hand to call for silence. "Now, now, Anthony," Elias pacified. "Let's not insult our guest. I'm sure we're all capable of talking this out like adults. Natasha, you do realize that should you blow us all up, you'd be killing the man you're here to save?"

"That's the problem with crazy people, Carl. They aren't afraid to die, so they get what they want, or they destroy everyone opposing them in the process."

Carl studied her movements and mannerisms, but she seemed to be the most relaxed person in the room. Judging from the tense look on John's face, it was obvious he recognized she fully intended to follow through with her plan. "And if you are, as you say, not afraid to die," Elias continued, "then what's stopping you from detonating the bomb as soon as we escort your friend off the premises?"

"Honestly," Kitty affirmed, "just because I'm not afraid to die doesn't mean I'm very keen on the idea of expiring in a—" She glanced up from the pasta to take a good look around at the shabby surroundings. "—shitty fishing warehouse."

"Is there any point to all this?" asked Reese. "Sitting quietly while listening to a bunch of bickering isn't really my thing."

"No offence to you, John, but I only brought you here to attract Miss Krause." Elias reclined in his chair and waved a hand at Kitty. "I knew extending a formal invitation requesting Mildred's presence would only make her harder to find, so I decided to start with the last known person you had contact with." Pausing to take a long sip of wine, Elias allowed the silence to continue until Kitty yawned. "I see no reason for John to stay. Your request will be granted. Marco? Please take John back to the city."

Reese's expression remained impassive as one of the bodyguards motioned for him to stand. "I'll find a way to get you out of here."

Kitty didn't bother to smile as he was escorted out with a bag over his head. "Please don't pretend to worry about me, John. It's insulting." As soon as John was no longer in the building, Kitty resumed eating the ravioli.

"Aren't you forgetting something?" Elias tilted his head. "I believe you owe my friend an antidote."

"Not until I have assurance that John is safe. I hope for your sake that your driver holds great disdain for speed limits."

Elias watched in silent worry as Anthony began to sweat profusely. The claw marks on his cheek bulged an angry red, and the longer he went without a cure, the more obvious it was that he truly had been poisoned. "Have a seat, Anthony." Elias pulled out a chair, insisting his friend stay off his feet until this was all settled.

Kitty continued to feast, uninterested in the whispered conversations of the men around her. "I'm taking your wine," she announced and gulped a large swig straight from the bottle.

Ten minutes later, every cellphone in the room began vibrating at once—Mildred's sign that Reese was out of danger. "Splendid," Kitty exclaimed. She reached down and pulled out the middle syringe from off her garter belt. "Here you are, my good sir. Just yank off the plastic top and stab yourself with it. I suggest the femoral artery, but any will do. Now," she continued, turning her attention to Elias, "what exactly was it you wanted to talk about?"

Elias kept on eye on Anthony, pleased to find the man was already breathing easier after injecting himself with the syringe. "I was hoping we could strike up a deal. Become friends."

Kitty leaned forward against the table. "You want to be my friend?"

"We're not so different, you and I."

"How so?"

"Your friend John and his partner . . . they _help_ people for a living. They're do-gooders. Not like us," he confirmed with an expression of camaraderie. "We're more . . . egotistical than that. We're not adverse to . . . say . . . revenge, for example. Your little stunt with the poison proved that."

"I'm afraid I'm not following." Kitty frowned at her plate. "And I've run out of pasta."

Thanks to a very long chat he'd had with a captured Russian mobster, Elias knew the risks involved with corresponding with Kitty. He also understood that an alliance with her would ensure the final nail in the coffins of each of the five Don's. In addition, gaining her as a friend kept him in the know-how of the Russians he so desperately wished would leave his beloved beach. In his eyes, the rewards far outweighed the risks. "I would like very much to become your ally. I help you, and you help me in the future. How does that sound?"

" _HA!_ " Kitty chortled. "I don't need your help. Why would I agree to an alliance?"

"Because I can offer you something your friends cannot."

"And what would that be?" Kitty raised an intrigued eyebrow. "More ravioli?"

"Retribution." Elias dropped two photos onto the table and slid them in front of Kitty, knowing even before her expression hardened with contempt at the sight of them that she would agree to the deal. "I can provide the locations of the two men who sold you."

* * *

 _2012, New York City_

Unable to pinpoint Reese or Kitty's location, Finch began research on the Siberian Volki. He was unsure if Natasha had meant to disclose the name of the organization she once worked for, but it turned out to be a virtually worthless discovery anyway. According to every facet of the Internet, the Siberian Volki did not exist.

Leila let out another anguished wail and knocked over the pillow fort Finch had set up for her. All had been fine for the first hour after Kitty left the safehouse, but now that the child realized she was gone, nothing could pacify her. Face bright red from screaming, Leila continued to cry even after Harold lifted her up and cradled her against his chest.

"I just changed your diaper," Finch mused. "Are you hungry? Is that it? Here we go. How about a delicious bottle?" Leila whipped her head back and forth when Finch offered her the rubber nipple. "Please stop crying," he begged as she twisted around in his arms, but nothing was calming her down.

Finch thought about the things Kitty did to help Leila sleep, but the more he thought about it, the more he realized Kitty never did anything. Leila was naturally intrigued by the woman and never cried in her presence. He was doomed. Or was he?

Finch carried Leila over to his computer and hooked it up to his portable printing system. A few edits later, he had a printed photo of Natasha that he promptly taped over his own face. It worked for a few minutes, but after slapping at his flat chest, Leila figured out he was a fake and burst into even louder tears.

Finch searched the room for something soft he could stuff his shirt with and eventually settled for two long winter scarfs hanging on the peg by the front door. Taking the knitted wool off the pegs, he arranged them beneath his dress shirt to resemble two rounded breasts. Leila blinked away her tears, checked to confirm Kitty's face was still on the paper, and snuggled up against Finch's shirt.

"Finch?"

"Mr. Reese?" Harold perked up in his seat. "Where is Natasha?"

"I'm fine, thanks."

"What happened?" Finch began locating the signal on Reese's new cellphone. "You're only a few blocks away. Come to this address, and you can explain what the hell is going on."

* * *

"And you have no idea where this warehouse is?"

"Like I said, Finch, they blindfolded me. All I know is that it smelled of fish. Doesn't matter anyway. Since Natasha found them, they're bound to have moved locations by now." Reese watched as Finch gave a small snort of disapproval. "Listen, Finch, I know why you did it, but still. The sight of you with breasts is a little too uncomfortable for my taste."

"Shhhh." Harold brought a finger up to his lips. "I just got her to sleep so I could take the mask off. _Do not_ wake her back up."

"What are we gonna do about Natasha? Think we should ask for Fusco and Carter's help? Natasha wasn't dressed like a man, so Carter will know exactly who we've been working with." Reese noticed the search windows pulled up on Finch's laptop screen. "Why are you looking up the Siberian Volki?"

"I didn't get very far," said Finch.

"You wouldn't have. Even I'm not sure who they are." Reese noticed Finch's nervous demeanor and allowed himself a small smile. "You're worried about her."

"Of course I'm worried about her," Finch retorted hotly. "My entire career is built upon worrying for the safety of others. Don't try to skew my intentions, Mr. Reese."

"Calm down, Harold," Reese soothed in his most relaxed tone. "I can't say I'm her biggest fan, but I'll find her. I promise."

* * *

 _Brooklyn, New York_

The computer monitor whirred to life at the sound of Kitty slamming the front door.

 _NOW THAT JOHN IS SAFE,_ _WOULD YOU LIKE ME TO—_

"Don't talk to me," Kitty snarled. "Don't talk to me ever again."

 _WHAT DID I DO?_

"You know damn well what you did. You told me Nikolai and Fyodor were dead." Kitty reached for her stash of weapons and began loading them. "They're very much alive, you lying bitch."

 _PLEASE DON'T CALL ME THAT_

 _I CAN EXPLAIN MY DECEIT_

In a burst of uncontrollable rage, Kitty lashed out and knocked all of her belongings off a shelf. It wasn't long, however, before she was unable to cope with the disarray. Bending down to pick them up, Kitty replaced the items back in their original position.

 _IF YOU KNEW WHERE THEY WERE LOCATED, YOU WOULD MURDER THEM_

 _MURDER IS EVIL_

 _WE ARE NOT EVIL_

 _I DID IT TO PROTECT YOU_

"Don't you dare feed me your pious shit," Kitty twisted around to scream at the monitor, tears welling up in her eyes. " _You lied to me!_ Lying is evil, too, Mildred!"

 _I HAD NO CHOICE_

"You saw what they did. You were there when they attacked me, or have you forgotten? It's not evil to destroy evil. That's all I'm going to do."

 _CALM YOURSELF_

 _THINK THIS THROUGH_

 _VENGENCE WILL NOT BRING PEACE_

"No," Kitty refuted furiously. "No, Mildred. You don't get to take this away from me. Those sons of bitches are _mine_." Kitty slung her rifle over a shoulder and marched purposefully towards the door.

* * *

 _Manhattan, New York_

Nikolai Mikhailov rushed from his car to the front entrance of his apartment. Flanked on all sides by his bodyguards, he swiped his keycard and pushed into the building, letting out a relaxed sigh of relief. He'd been on-edge ever since he heard about the reward for Mildred Krause. Unlike the rest of the Russians in New York, Nikolai knew the truth. He knew the real Mildred Krause was dead, and that it was only a matter of time before her vengeful sister came looking for him.

Changing his identity should have put a stop to his fears. He'd gone through great lengths to create a completely new life for himself in America. After he sold Natasha, the money provided by Decima was more than enough to provide personal security to safeguard his lavish lifestyle, but no amount of money would be able to stop her once she found him. It was only a matter of time. He needed to pack.

Upon entering his bedroom, he heard two muffled gunshots as the men standing on either side of him dropped to the floor. Somebody grabbed him tightly by the arm and yanked him the rest of the way into the room. He couldn't see her properly, but he knew it was her. Yanking the top off a specialized smoke grenade, Natasha tossed it out the door where the rest of the bodyguards were located before slamming it shut behind them and locking it with a definitive _click_.

Natasha flicked on the overhead bedroom light and nudged Nikolai's arm with the barrel of her gun. "Have a seat."

Nikolai stared at the gun, immobile at the sheer shock of seeing her again after all these years. When he regained control of his body, his expression settled into unreadable stone. "You're supposed to be dead."

"Sorry to disappoint."

The old man took a seat on the mattress, resting his clasped hands on top of his lap. "I suppose you're hear to ask me _why_."

"No," Natasha mused softly, "I stopped asking _why_ a long time ago."

"You're here to kill me."

"The thought had crossed my mind." She stood in front of his seat on the bed, gun pointed between his eyes. "I am, however, open for negotiations."

"I'm listening."

"I'd like to fall asleep without seeing the inside of my father's skull in my dreams. Can you erase these memories?" Nikolai's hopeful expression hardened when he realized she was only offering impossible feats. "No? Alright, how about this one . . . I'd like to see my sister again. Alive."

"I had nothing to do with that," he argued. "What happened to your sister was never in the plan."

"I'm guessing my papa and mama were _never in the plan_ either, right?"

"I swear on my life I had nothing to do with their deaths."

"You deny killing my father? I suggest you own that deed at least, considering I watched you pull the trigger."

"Why do you care?" he asked. "You never cared before. That's what made you different. That's what made you special."

"You're attempts at flattery are pissing me off. Please be silent."

Nikolai sucked in a deep, calming breath. "How does this end, Natasha? You kill me, and then what? Killing me isn't going to bring them back."

"No," Kitty agreed with a small smile, "but it _will_ make me feel just a little bit better. That's all I can hope for at this point."

"Well," the old man huffed a nervous sigh. "You haven't shot me yet. What else do you want?"

"I want you to call them off," she ordered. "Your watchdogs. All of them. From this day forward, I'm of no use to the Russians. I'm as good as dead to your people."

"The Americans will still be looking for you."

"Let me worry about the Americans. Call your dogs."

While Nikolai sent out calls ordering his contacts to abandon their search for Mildred Krause, Kitty glanced around the room at all the belongings he'd purchased with her life's work. Her grip on the gun tightened. Natasha had been worth a small fortune, and the man who had continuously exploited her while still a part of the Siberian Volki was still exploiting her today every time he purchased something with the money he received for her life. "Do you ever think about our old agreement?" Kitty asked after he finished his final call. "All the things you made me do?"

"Is that what this is about? Natasha, you agreed," he stated as calmly as he could. "You agreed to all of it. You consented to the arrangement. I wouldn't have followed through if you hadn't consented."

"You're such a saint," Kitty mocked airily. "Even incredibly intelligent children are capable of making incredibly stupid decisions. It's one of the many downsides of being a child. My father should have killed you when he had the chance. Tell me," she asked, "when exactly did you decide to sell me? Before or after my father beat you and Fyodor senseless?" He was trembling now, and it made her glad.

"I'm sorry."

"No you're not," Kitty refuted. "But that's okay. I've done lots of bad things I'm not sorry for, and I'll do plenty more before I'm dead." Twisting her torso to the side, Kitty modeled her ornate black shoes. "Do you know what these are? Genuine Jimmy Choos. Cost three-thousand dollars." She shook her head at the thought. "I never could understand fashion."

"Is there a point to this, Natasha?"

Kitty locked eyes with the trembling old man, her smile off-kilter. "Mildred was obsessed with this line. When we were children, I promised to buy her a pair once I was rich off my inventions." The smile never left her lips, but a frightening darkness swept over her eyes. "I was originally going to rig these to detonate and blow your sorry ass straight to hell, but the longer I thought of it, the more I've realized you're not worth a pair of Jimmy Choos."

Nikolai's eyes darted to the gun. "Are you going to kill me?"

"Kill you?" Natasha exclaimed with an amused grin. "Why on earth would I kill you? You deserve so, so much worse than death." She reached a hand behind her back and pulled out a dart gun, quickly shooting Nikolai in the neck before he could respond further.

Nikolai frantically grasped at the dart, but it was no use. "What is this?" he asked, panicked. "What did you do?"

"That's a little something special I mixed with a generous amount of heroin. I haven't thought of a name for it yet, but rest assured, the mortality rate is under 15%, so it's pretty much guaranteed that you'll live." Kitty watched as he struggled to sit up straight. "You want to know what the best part of all this is? After you've passed out, I'm going to bash your head against the coffee table, cover you in heroin powder, and call the police. When they find your sorry ass, my poison will have already paralyzed you, and you will be unable to tell them this was all my doing. They'll blame your symptoms on an overdose and blame your paralysis on your bashed skull and stick you in the ICU. You'll spend the rest of your days rotting away in a hospital somewhere, and when you finally die, no one will mourn you. Isn't that poetic?"

Nikolai fell flat against the bed as the drugs took hold. Kitty had given him a significantly higher dose than she gave Agent Snyder, so it would only take about an hour or so for the blood vessels in his eyes to rupture and the paralysis to set in. It was an hour of waiting she would enjoy immensely.

"You ruined my life," Kitty whispered as he wreathed atop the comforter. "Welcome to the rest of your own."

* * *

 _New York City_

Natasha shuffled into the apartment Finch had provided for her, closed the door, and leaned her back against it. Her sore body throbbed from the intense physical labor of dragging each of Nikolai 's unconscious guards into the living room to better stage the heroin setup. All of Nikolai 's security footage showing Kitty's break-in to the apartment had been confiscated and erased. There was nothing to trace her to the crime scene, so why wasn't she happy?

After calling the police using Nikolai 's cellphone, Natasha had wandered the streets in confusion. She'd just avenged her father's murder and taken revenge for the terrible things that transpired after she was sold and taken to China. She should be happy, but she only felt empty and confused.

Instead of returning to her Brooklyn apartment, Kitty chose to spend the next few days in her city apartment so she wouldn't have to talk to Mildred. Now that she'd had a chance to calm down, she regretted most of what she said, or at least the way in which she'd said it. She figured an apology was in order once she figured out what to do with the remaining man on her hit list.

* * *

Planning the downfall of Fyodor Petrov was a tiring affair that left Kitty frustrated and not at all excited. Throwing on the red dress she'd worn to meet with Elias, Kitty roamed the streets to clear her head, hoping the fresh air would bring her some sort of answer.

It almost felt wrong walking the streets dressed like a woman. Every once in a while Kitty flinched inadvertently, expecting a slammed car door or a particularly loud shout to mean that danger was coming for her, but nobody bothered her while on a nightly stroll.

For a little while, at least.

As Natasha passed a closed comic shop, two men loitering the area whistled and called her to come closer. Ignoring them only made their interest stronger, and soon either man was hurrying alongside her.

"Hey, baby, where are you going in such a hurry?" one of the men asked.

"Damn, girl," his friend added. "You've got legs for days. I bet you're a real fun ride."

Natasha was already taller than either man, but in her stilettos, it was comedic just how much she towered over them both. She took a few more long strides, and then she turned sharply and peered down at the closer of the two. "How long is your dick?"

The man blinked, stunned into silence at the blunt question and the completely serious expression on Natasha's face. Women never responded to his harassment, and now he wasn't quite sure how to answer. "It . . . uh, it's long enough for you, baby," he finished confidently.

"And you?" Natasha nodded to the other man. "Would you say you have a penis to rival his?"

"You bet your sweet ass I do," he answered.

"Oh, good," she stated happily. "I've been hunting down exceptionally long dicks for my trophy wall. You wouldn't believe how difficult it's been to increase my collection. This city is full of mediocrity." Before either man could respond, Natasha had a glistening knife in each hand and a wide-eyed smile. Light from the streetlamp above them shadowed her facial features and made her sinister eyes glow in the darkness. "You two are going to be #42 and #43, respectively," she explained. "We'll have to take this to a back alley, though. There's always a lot of blood."

One of the men jumped away so wildly, he tripped over the curb and landed hard on his back, scrambling desperately to his feet. His friend broke out in a sprint down the street, muttering curses under his breath.

"Is that a no?" she yelled after them. "Oh, well."

Kitty walked past a payphone, and it began to ring. She paid no mind until the next seven payphones she passed began ringing, one after the other, in perfect succession.

After the ninth phone call, Kitty ripped it from the receiver. "I'm not coming home, Mildred," she stated firmly. "I'm still pissed off at you. Leave me alone, and stop spying on me."

 _HAROLD HAS BEEN TAKEN CAPTIVE AND DRUGGED_

 _HIS LIFE IS CURRENTLY IN DANGER_

 _IF YOU WANT HIM TO LIVE, GO TO THIS ADDRESS_

* * *

"I'm so pleased to see you're using this apartment." Harold held tightly to Kitty's arm to steady his balance. "I was beginning to worry you didn't like it."

Seeing Finch in such high spirits threw her off. When Kitty arrived to save him, it was obvious he'd been drugged. Finch didn't seem to care that the microwave he was dancing in front of was about to explode and catch the kitchen on fire, and he'd even embraced her with a giddy exclamation about how great it was to see her alive. Finch was so stoned, Kitty was forced to explain that no, she was not a mermaid with magical hair-growing powers—she was wearing a wig. He'd tried to prove her wrong by tugging it off her head on the taxi ride back to her apartment.

"I stay here when I'm not sleeping at the library," Kitty lied. As soon as they were both safely in the room, she carefully slipped out of her precious heals and returned them to the stone pedestal she kept in her bedroom on the rare occasions she actually slept here. She preferred her Brooklyn apartment with Mildred, but she hadn't returned to that place since their fight nearly three days ago.

Finch wasn't listening to anything she said. "I frequently checked the news for signs of bombings or mass hysteria, but I couldn't find any breaking news articles." His face brightened as he wrapped both arms around her waist and pulled her towards him. "I'm so proud of you. You're making improvements, I can tell."

"Harold, get off of me."

Finch curiously lifted a piece of paper with sketches for possible ways to wreak havoc on Fyodor's life. "What's this?" he asked.

"Give me that." Kitty ripped the paper out of his hands and grabbed fistfuls of other documents she had piled on the counter.

"Is it a secret?" Finch jabbed a thumb at his chest. " _I_ have a secret."

"Yeah?" Kitty asked, only half listening as she hid the documents in a cupboard. "Fascinating. What is it?"

"I like your hair short," he whispered, "but I'm not supposed to tell you, so shhhhhhh."

Kitty raised her eyebrows at his words, smiling her agreement. "Oh, okay. I won't tell. I guess that means I can take this wig off then. It itches."

"Ooooo." Finch released his hold on her and hurried over to the other side of the living room. "You have a scratching post? Cats love scratching posts."

"Harold," she sighed heavily, "that's a fake cactus. What . . . Harold, what the hell are you doing?"

Finch crouched slightly, bending his fingers into pseudo claws in which he used to scratch the cactus in an exaggerated manor. "Hey, watch this," he announced happily. "I can be a cat, too. _Mmmmrrrrooooowww!_ " Harold cupped his hand like a paw and swatted at a potted plant sitting on the mantle. It flew to the floor and split open with a sharp crack, sending dirt and leaves scattering across the hardwood.

"Unbelievable," Kitty protested. "Look what you've done. Now there's dirt everywhere."

"No there's not," Finch complained and kicked a clump of soil across the room. " _Now_ it's everywhere."

Kitty clenched her teeth at the mess. She knew it was no use arguing with him while there was dirt on the floor. Her hands were already twitching at the sight of it all. Thankfully, she'd had the good sense to purchase a broom and dustpan to help with such things. It was no time at all before the hardwood was spotless again.

"Okay." Kitty clapped her hands together and smiled with false cheer. "How about we play a game? It's called the _Harold sits down on the couch and does nothing_ game."

"No, I think I'd rather be a cat some more," Finch stated before swiping at assorted items on the mantle.

"No. Stop it. Stop!" Kitty caught the falling items and clutched them protectively. "Stop breaking my stuff, Harold."

"Oh, wow!" Just as quickly as it had with the cactus, Finch's attention was averted to something on the other side of the room. He sauntered over to the TV and pointed at the game system Natasha had retrieved from the upstate safe house she shared with Bonnie. "You kept your x-box. Oh, good. Now I can check up on you."

Kitty—who had been heading towards her bedroom to hide her belongings—stopped abruptly. "What does that mean?"

"I used to watch you and Miss McCully through the webcam in the Kinect device." Finch coughed a laugh. "You two are very interesting."

"You spied on us," Kitty affirmed with equal parts confusion and annoyance. "Real nice." Natasha spied on people all the time, but that was different. A spark of panic ignited in her stomach as she thought back on anything abnormal she might have done while at the safehouse.

"You don't smile when you're alone," Finch continued. "Why is that?"

"Smiling when not experiencing happiness is a complete betrayal of emotion," she answered. "It's only when I'm alone that I can be myself."

"Why don't you just be yourself all the time?"

"Because you wouldn't like the real me, Finch."

"You called me Finch." He tilted his head to the side like a curious puppy. "You never call me Finch."

Natasha gazed at him with the same fondness she had with Leila. "Okay, listen. I'm going to Harold-proof the room and be right back. No, no, no! _Stay._ Stay right there. No, sit. Not on _that._ On the _couch._ "

After carrying potted plants, figurines, candy jars (and any other loose items Harold was tempted to knock over) to her room, Kitty arranged and rearranged them all until she was satisfied with their new temporary home. Natasha grumbled irritably as she rounded the corner leading back into the living room. Harold was still sitting quietly on the couch, but he had a conspirator's grin and was doing a terrible job of hiding it. Before she had the chance to ask him what was so amusing, she realized what he had done. _"GODDAMNIT, HAROLD!"_

Every painting, photo, and ornamental wall hanging had been slightly shifted so it hung lopsided and off-kilter.

"What?" Finch asked innocently.

Kitty began straightening the frames while Finch played rock-paper-scissors against himself. When she was finished, Kitty's clenched fists trembled with the buildup of the night's events, and she plopped unceremoniously onto the couch, slumping forward. It wasn't long before she felt someone gently poking her cheek. " _Harold,_ " she growled.

"If you're a cat," he asked curiously, "does that mean you like it when people groom you? Wait, no, that's monkeys."

While Finch entertained himself by pretending to search her hair for bugs, Kitty preformed a quick Google search to better understand what she was dealing with. She came across a medical publication that read: _MDMA drastically alters Dopamine, Norepinephrine, and Serotonin levels, which affects mood, appetite, sleep, blood pressure, and other functions. The release of large amounts of serotonin also triggers hormones that affect sexual arousal, emotional closeness, elevated mood, and empathy._

"Fantastic," Kitty muttered sarcastically and retrieved a glass of tap water from the kitchen. "I'd hate for you to die of dehydration, so, here. Drink this."

Finch gripped the glass with both hands, smiling happily as he took a sip.

"Harold," Kitty asked, "where is Leila? Is she with John?"

"What? Oh, no, no. We gave her back."

"Gave her back to who? What are you talking about?"

"Her family. We tracked them down and returned her," Finch answered with a proud smile.

Deep down, Kitty knew she wouldn't have been able to keep the child, but losing Leila so soon after having to give Peregrine away left Kitty stunned. At least with Peregrine she'd been able to say her goodbyes.

Finch ran a hand down the side of her red dress. "This is my favorite color. Cardinal. It's so difficult to find a good solid cardinal red these days. Everything has orange added to it."

"This is my favorite color, too," Natasha admitted, pushing his wandering hand away from her ribs. "Has been since I was four and dissected a swan."

Without any kind of warning, Harold pulled his feet up onto the couch, leaned to the side, and rested his head against Kitty's chest—most of which her low-cut dress left exposed. "Wow," he stated in awe. "Leila was on to something here. They're so soft. I won't lie," Finch admitted, peering up at her, "I wasn't entirely certain they were real. I'm sorry."

"The fuck?" Kitty watched as his contented face nestled against her breasts, and she rolled her eyes in contempt. "I am so not drunk enough for this shit."

"Hey," Finch complained irritably when she pulled away and headed towards the kitchen. "I was using those."

Quickly retrieving her hidden stash of liquor, Kitty ripped the top off and took a long swig. "Alright, listen." She reached out and undid his tie, laying it out across the couch to separate it in half. "You see this? This is the Harold line, and you're not allowed to cross it."

Harold picked up the tie and wrapped it around her neck like a scarf. Kitty remained perfectly still as he leaned in so close his nose brushed against her neck. "I like the way you smell."

"Oh, for fuck's sake, Harold."

"Why do you insist people call you Kitty?"

Vodka sloshed loudly in the bottle as she knocked it backwards to take another long gulp. "Because Mildred did," she answered quietly.

"Why?"

"Because I'm antisocial, I like to have my hair brushed, and I prefer naps to a solid eight hours of sleep."

"So you _do_ like to be groomed."

For a reason she could not explain, Kitty's mood shifted, and she found herself laughing. "Harold, you're going to thoroughly hate yourself in the morning. I can't wait."

"I was an only child," Finch commented randomly. "What was Mildred like?"

"Infuriating. Not particularly bright. Loud. Obnoxious." Kitty's voice trailed off. "Perfect," she whispered before knocking the bottle back. "My psychologist believed I was such an egomaniac that the only way I could ever love someone was if the subject of my affection looked exactly like me."

"Well, that was rude." Finch patted her hand in support. "You never showed me your tattoos."

"And I'm not going to."

If Finch had been of sound mind, he would have noticed the distress the conversation was causing her and wouldn't have pressed the matter. Instead, he asked, "Why not?"

"I'm not drunk enough yet."

"What does that have to do with it?" he asked.

"None of them were put on me with my consent. They had to strap me down once. I . . ." Natasha paused to take another swig and coughed roughly, wiping the spilt drink from her lips. "I don't like remembering when and where I received them. I don't . . ."

"Noooooooo," Finch moaned in agony. "I've made you sad again. Don't cry."

"You know what?" Wiping at her wet eyes, Natasha flashed Harold a wavering smile and reached for her laptop. "Fuck them. Fuck all of them. I'm not going to let them make me sad. Let's have some fun."

Finch leaned in close, eyes widening with excitement. "You wanna hack the Pentagon?"

"Nah. Trust me, that's no fun," Kitty countered with a smile of her own. "Let's say hi to Fusco."

* * *

Lionel searched the apartment for a third time before dialing Reese. "Mr. Peabody's not here."

"What do you mean he's not there?"

"I mean your friend with the glasses was not at the address you gave me. Probably wandered off." Fusco slunk back into his police cruiser and opened his laptop. "Is there some other way we can track him down? I—hold on . . . something's wrong with my mouse. I can't control it. Damn it," Fusco grumbled. "I just got this laptop. Now I've got a virus?"

The mouse icon booted up Microsoft Paint and began drawing the molecular formula for vodka, a terrible cartoon cat, and a crude sketch of a penis before someone else fought for control and the mouse zoomed from one side of the screen to the other, completely out of control. One by one, someone sporadically scribbled lines over the pictures, obscuring them from view. Suddenly, the application quit, and an ad popped up advertising _Sexy Singles In Your Area Who Also Enjoy Pastries_ with the disclaimer _(Definitely Not A Virus!)_. The ad disappeared, and an unprompted textbox materialized.

HO HO HO

OFFICER FUSCO

I NEED TO COMMANDEER YOUR TROUSERS AND FILL THEM WITH JELLY DOUGHNUTS

"What the hell?" Fusco tried to regain control of the mouse, but it still had a mind of its own.

HELLO, DETECTIVE

IGNORE THOSE PREVIOUS DRAWINGS

KITTY IS A TERRIBLE ARTIST

HEY, FUCK YOU

I'M A TALENTED ARTIST

I TOLD YOU TO STOP SAYING THAT WORD

FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKASNKASAL;AL[[]]]]1,,1,1,MA,ADSLAIS/FWLKS]]

FUSCO HELP ME

HAROLD IS TRYING TO STEAL MY COMPUTER

NO I'M NOT

SHARING IS CARING

HAROLD WON'T STOP BRUSHING MY HAIR

SOMEBODY PLEASE TAKE THIS BRUSH AWAY FROM HIM

FUSCO MAKE HIM STOP

Lionel grinned in triumph when he discovered his typing abilities still worked. He typed: WHERE ARE YOU TWO?

He was promptly met with the response: KITTY'S BOMB-ASS APARTMENT

HERE'S THE ADDRESS

COME PARTY WITH US, LIONEL

WE'RE ORDERING PIZZA

Fusco redialed Reese's number, shaking his head at the entire situation. "Hey, Wonderboy . . . why didn't you tell me you two were still babysitting Mowgli?"


	14. Heartbreak Hotel

**Sorry for the delay. Hopefully ROOT being a big part of the next chapter will make up for it.**

* * *

 _2009, Shanghai, China_

 _Greer knew what happened even before Agent Robbins had a chance to explain the situation. Bad news was written all over the man's face._

 _"I assume you've already instated a lockdown of this institution?"_

 _"Yes, sir. We're currently searching for her. She's destroyed her tracking implant, so I ordered a room-by-room flush of the building. She . . . she left you a letter."_

 _"Read it."_

 _"It's rather vulgar, sir."_

 _Greer snorted._

 _"And. . ."_

 _"Yes?" Greer snapped._

 _"The body from room 415 is missing. That was the first room I checked, sir, and the box was disconnected and removed from the premises without any sort of security clearance. We think," Agent Robbins added nervously, "Natasha may have had help."_

 _"And what makes you think that?"_

 _"Agent Pak Nam is missing as well."_

 _Greer's expression shifted from one of false indifference to one of slight worry. He snatched his coat from the back of his chair, already heading towards the door._

 _"Sir?" Agent Robbins asked. "Where are you going?"_

 _"I'm leaving, and I suggest you do the same. No need to gather your belongings. They won't be here for very much longer."_

 _The two men had just enough time to stumble a safe distance away before the detonators Natasha installed inside Decima Technologies ignited the gas leak Agent Pak Nam had helped her create. The explosion was so powerful it knocked Greer off his feet and engulfed the entire structure in flames._

 _Greer, and the few workers who had managed to escape in time, watched from a safe distance as the windows blew out and the lab expanded with heat until the entirety of the building was nothing more than an orange glow shining brightly on the horizon._

 _"Robbins," Greer stated flatly._

 _"Yes, sir?"_

 _"We've been sold a bad egg. Get me a ticket on the first flight to St. Petersburg."_

* * *

 _2012, New York City_

 _FULL NAME: SAMANTHA GROVES_

 _PREFERRED ALIAS: ROOT_

 _EXHIBITS PSYCHOPATHIC TRAITS_

 _ABOVE AVERAGE IQ_

 _ABOVE AVERAGE PHYSICAL BEAUTY_

 _NATURALLY INQUISITIVE_

 _IN NEED OF A PURPOSE_

 _EXTREME FASCINATION WITH AI TECHNOLOGY_

 _SUCCESS RATE OF COGNITIVE TRAINING ESTIMATED AT 98.23%_

 _WILLINGNESS TO ASSIST AFTER TRAINING ESTIMATED AT 99.87%_

 _COMPATIBILITY TO NATASHA AFTER TRAINING ESTIMATED AT 99.29%_

 _INITIATING FIRST CONTACT . . ._

* * *

 _2012, New York City_

"I'll kill her." Reese made one final check to make sure the apartment was empty. There were obvious signs that Finch and Kitty had just recently been here because the new high score screen for _Dance Central_ was flashing on the television. "Mark my words, Fusco. Anything happens to Finch, she's a dead woman."

"Aw, come on," Fusco countered. "Isn't she obsessed with him? I don't think she'd—"

Both men stiffened and turned towards the door. A small buzzing sound was coming from the doorbell. Reese hurried over and pushed the call button. "Who is this?"

"Papa Johns," the voice answered. "I've got your three large pizzas here. You mind buzzing me up?"

"Maybe they're coming back," Fusco offered. "Why would they order pizza and then leave?"

"Because, Lionel," Reese explained unnaturally calm, "one of them is a billionaire genius high off his ass, and the other is a psychotic alcoholic in love with military-grade explosives and advanced chemical warfare."

"All the same," said Fusco, "can we buzz the pizza guy in? There's no use letting three perfectly good pies go to waste, and I'm starving."

* * *

 _The Opera House Hotel, Bronx, New York_

Finch woke gradually, already sensing the incredible strain the night had left on his body. He awoke to the faint scent of wildflowers, and he was all at once transported back to his childhood home in Iowa. Thoughts of quiet moments spent with his father—long before the worries of the machine—helped relax him, despite the pain in his neck, and he sank further into his pillow, contented. It was a solid ten seconds before he was awake enough to realize his face rested not against a downy pillow, but soft, human flesh.

Harold had only ever been drunk once in his entire life, and it had been such a horrid affair that he never saw the need to do it again. Nathan had been the culprit—as usual—and in the morning following his inebriated tirade, an intense wave of humiliation crashed over him at the sight of his situation. Nathan insisted on hosting his best friend a frivolous birthday extravaganza that had quickly escaladed into something uncontainable. From his spot atop a sofa, Harold saw the room was in shambles, Nathan was nowhere to be found, and a very beautiful—very naked—young woman was fast asleep against his chest, but the most disturbing thing of all was that he could not remember how far they had taken their relationship. Harold couldn't even remember her name.

As his heart beat faster with the same panic he had felt in his youth, Finch realized he remembered absolutely nothing about last night. Making a great effort not to move, he tried to discern his surroundings, but all he could tell was he was on a bed in an unfamiliar room. Dark curtains covered the windows nearest him, blocking the morning sun.

Convincing himself to remain calm, Harold searched through his memories, cataloging events to try and decipher the last thing he _could_ remember. Their latest number was a woman who Harold previously suspected was a victim of identity theft. Considering she drugged his drink last night—that much Finch could recall—he now believed she was the perpetrator after all. He needed to call Mr. Reese.

Whoever Harold was asleep against shifted slightly and tightened their hold on him. A soft exhale blew against the top of his head, and the hair touching Finch's forehead tickled against his skin. As gently as he could, Harold raised his face to try and get a look at the slumbering person, even though he was certain he already knew who it was.

"Hör auf mich zu belästigen," Kitty mumbled sleepily. "Gehen Mildred zu schlafen."

Harold could feel the blood slowly drain from his face at the sound of her voice. Not only was Natasha his bedfellow, the two of them were both in a state of undress. Unable to locate his shirt, Finch was comforted by the fact that he was still wearing his slacks. Kitty, on the other hand, had discarded her red dress in a heap on the carpet a few feet away, and her bare body had molded against his under the comforter.

Since Kitty had both arms snaked around him, Harold had no choice but to remain pushed against the crook of her neck. Each time Natasha inhaled, Harold was greeted with an up-close-and-personal view of her breasts. It was a small relief to find she was at least wearing the bra they purchased outside the city.

Unable to decide what to do next, Finch relaxed against her tight embrace, realizing that the nostalgic scent of flowers and sweat was coming from her skin.

" _Was zur Hölle?!_ " Natasha shouted furiously, thoroughly startling Finch. Pushing away from him, she fell backwards off the bed and began thrashing about in a tangle of sheets.

"Miss Krause," Harold began with an outstretched hand. "Miss Krause? It's me."

" _Wer zum Teufel bist du?"_ she screamed, panting heavily with panic. _"Was zu ist los?"_

"Natasha?" Finch tried louder and louder until his voice matched the intensity of hers. " _NATASHA?"_ Harold watched as she blinked rapidly, now fully awake.

In her haste to defend herself, Kitty instinctually reached for the nearest object in the room. Realizing who he was, she loosened her hold on the bedside lamp, uncurling finger by finger to set it back in its place.

"Scheisse," she swore before her face went completely blank.

The two stared silently at each other until she abruptly turned on her heel and stepped into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her.

The air was cooler in here, and it helped her concentrate. Curling up on the chilly porcelain toilet, Kitty slowly relaxed as she began remembering a large majority of what transpired during their inebriated state last night. Now she needed to figure out how much of it Finch remembered so she could start working on damage control.

Kitty found him seated at the edge of the bed, facing away from her as he fumbled with the buttons of his dress shirt. He stiffened and stood abruptly when he realized she'd returned to the room.

"Miss Kr—Natasha," he amended nervously. "Natasha. I . . . I would just like to formally apologize upfront for any . . . misconduct I persuaded you into partaking in last night."

"That's a rather vague apology," she replied. "You don't remember exactly what we did?"

"I . . . Natasha," Harold admitted miserably, "to be completely honest with you . . . I, quite frankly, have no memory of last night."

Kitty fought to keep her expression neutral, despite her inclination to smile with relief. There had been more than a few secrets she'd shared with him that she'd rather not have shared, but now that she knew he couldn't remember, it was as if an incredible weight lifted off her shoulders. "Luckily for you," she whispered, reaching down to retrieve her dress, "I'm a master drunkard. I remember everything."

Diving into a fictitious story about a wild night that never actually occurred, Kitty invented erotic moment after erotic moment, stopping only when she realized Finch didn't just look uncomfortable like she'd hoped he would, he looked dangerously close to vomiting.

"Hey, hey, hey." Kitty flopped back onto the bed next to him, looking genuinely worried. "Calm down and stop looking at me like your life is over, Harold. I was just being a little shit at your expense. I was _lying_. We didn't have sex." Peering up at him, Kitty scowled at Harold's very apparent expression of pure relief. "Would it have been such a bad thing if we had?"

"Considering neither of us were of sound mind," he snapped, "yes. It would have been a very bad thing." Taking a deep breath, he asked, "If we didn't . . ." Finch waved a hand around, as if this completed the uncomfortable sentence. "Why were we both—"

"Harold, I can say with absolute assurance that we did not fuck each other." Finch clenched his jaw at the word, but Kitty pretended not to notice. "You want to know what we did instead? You brushed my hair while I explained my tattoos, and halfway through my story about the one on my left ribcage, you rudely fell asleep. That's it." Kitty huffed. "My fictional narrative was so much more interesting."

"That explains _your_ state of undress," said Harold. "What about mine?"

Kitty's flirtatious grin darkened unpleasantly at the memory. "You decided to explain what happened to your spine."

This was yet another reason he refused to drink to the point of drunkenness. There were few precious things in this life that were Harold's and Harold's alone. His memories were one of them, and they were unsafe when his mind was clouded with drugs and drinks.

Looking forlorn, Kitty sat up and gathered her hands in her lap. "I'm sorry about what happened to your friend. I understand now why you had a problem with my name change. Sorry I was persistent."

Finch prided himself in his privacy habits, and there was something about spilling his demons to the likes of Natasha that incensed him to a very dangerous degree. Above all, he felt vulnerable and exploited. Not even Mr. Reese—an arguably much more trusted friend—knew Nathan's story yet. "We don't need to talk about it."

"Harold—"

" _Ever_ ," he replied sharply.

"Okay."

The room settled into silence, each not venturing to speak first. A pair of thick curtains helped block out the sunlight, but it didn't do much for the noise on the street below. An angry man honked a horn and shouted profanities from out his car window. Somewhere, a dog was barking.

"Autophobic," Finch thought aloud.

"What did you say?"

"Last night you called yourself an aggressive autophobic who suffers from acute lepidopterophobia." Finch scrunched his eyebrows in thought. He didn't know what either of those disorders meant, but when he glanced over at Kitty, her expression and colored cheeks revealed an almost angry embarrassment at the admission. "What exactly does that mean?"

"I thought you said you couldn't remember anything from last night. You really need to make up your mind, _Finch_." Kitty agitatedly ambled out into the hallway, returning seconds later with a blank expression. "Uhhh, Harold?" she asked, quickly shutting the door behind her and leaning against it. "You know how I said I was a master drunkard? I may have slightly exaggerated. Do you by any chance recall us visiting a zoo last night?"

Halfway through buttoning the rest of his shirt closed, Harold glanced up and met her eyes. "Why do you ask?"

"Oh, no reason," she stated offhandedly. "Just that there's a large colony of fratercula cirrhata in the kitchen."

* * *

Kitty nodded in giddy approval as the tiny black penguins waddled around the room in search of food. "I have to admit," she babbled, "I'm impressed. Mostly excited, but also impressed."

"You would be," Finch admonished. "How in the world did we steal so many puffins from a zoo who keeps their animals caged throughout the night?"

"I know, right?" Kitty clapped her hands together before returning them stiffly to her sides. "This is so exciting."

Finch wandered over to the living room, ignoring her. Penguins waddled out of his way with a few annoyed honks. "Look at this mess. There must be at least a dozen of them."

"I love puffins." Natasha's fists remained clenched at her sides as she scanned the room. "Just look at them all. Most badass bird in the entire— _Ooooooo!_ " Kitty lifted up a fuzzy black chick and rubbed it against her cheek. "I'm keeping this one."

"No, you most certainly are not." Finch shot her an exasperated scowl and continued searching the room for clues as to why the birds were here. "We're returning them to the zoo immediately."

"How are we supposed to return them if we don't even know how we stole them?"

Finch lifted a detailed drawing off the dinner table, frowning at the fact that he had no memory of creating it. "It looks like we drew schematics for the most efficient way to scale the Statue of Liberty without using rope."

"Was that before or after we decided to build the Eiffel Tower out of toothpicks?"

Finch looked up from the paper to find Natasha pointing at something across the room. A half-finished replica of the Eiffel Tower sat neatly on the kitchen table. Curious, Finch peered inside the project, admiring the precision with which it was created.

"Harold? Do you know what I've just realized?"

"What?"

"We are boring as shit." Kitty snorted, shaking her head as she set the baby penguin back on the carpet.

"What is it now, Miss Krause?" asked Finch.

"I just remembered something. Before we left my apartment, you played a game of Dance Central and got the highest score on _Satisfaction._ You even played on the hardest level setting. It was most impressive."

Finch groaned and rubbed at his neck. "That would explain why it feels like I've been repeatedly run over by an eighteen-wheeler."

"Where are we, anyway?" Kitty searched the countertops for a business card or directory and discovered a complimentary pamphlet by the phone. " _The Opera House Hotel_. Well, we sure as hell know _I_ didn't pick this shithole. Oh my God, we're in the _Bronx?_ What are we doing in the Bronx? _"_

Harold stood around silently, unable to answer her questions.

"Wait a second," said Kitty. "I remember. _You_ picked this hotel. And you gave me a long ass lecture about the history behind it. God, I am suddenly so thankful I was drunk. No offence, Harold, but detailed hotel histories are not exactly what I would call riveting."

One of the more restless penguins flapped its stubby black wings and waddled right over a TV remote. The TV blasted to life, blaring the latest breaking news report.

" _Police are on the lookout for_ _two masked suspects who broke into the Bronx Zoo last night at around 10p.m. Zoo surveillance footage shows the criminals releasing flocks of Caribbean Flamingos into the city streets as well as stealing all of the Tuffed Penguins from the zoo's 'Aquatic Bird House and Sea Bird Aviary'. No fingerprints have been found at the scene, and so far no motive has been suggested by either NYPD or zoo staff."_

By the end of the report, Natasha was laughing so hard she'd collapsed to her knees, rolling onto her back to continue howling with laughter. Squawking loudly, the puffins swarmed around Kitty as she lay perfectly still on the floor. A few of the smaller penguins hopped up onto her stomach to beg for food, but the larger ones took strands of her hair in their beaks and tousled them around agitatedly. When she was effectively surrounded by the loud birds, Kitty confessed, "This is the happiest moment of my life."

Finch stared at her as if she were crazy. "Are you _crying?"_

"Let me have my moment, Harold."

* * *

 _New York City_

 _"Autophobia is an abnormal and persistent fear of loneliness, solitude, being ignored, or feeling unloved. Sufferers may experience anxiety even though they realize that being alone does not threaten their well-being. Autophobia also has another sense, that of an irrational fear of oneself—an intense self-fear that is groundless."_

Harold read through the article and typed _lepidopterophobia_ into the search bar.

 _"While many people see butterflies as cute and harmless creatures, some people are afraid of how they look and are skittish by their behaviors. Sufferers may associate butterfly behavior with being attacked or overcome by insects so that the fear is less about being hurt, but more so by being unable to control or escape the environment. Both butterflies and moths are social creatures, and they often travel in groups. Some people who fear them are less afraid of a single butterfly or moth than they are of a large group. Swarming, in which many butterflies or moths fly in close formation, may be a particular trigger. People whose fear is specifically of swarming are often afraid even when the insects are at rest, as they often rest in groups."_

"What's that?"

Finch jolted and immediately reached for the mouse to click away from the articles. "Good morning, Mr. Reese."

"Where is she?"

"What?"

Reese took a long, scenic glance around the library. "Natasha isn't here, and I can only guess that was per your request. Where is she?"

Finch had chosen not to explain everything that had happened last night after they left Kitty's apartment—partially because he honestly could not remember, and partially because what he _could_ remember made him miserable. Finch was more than certain that Kitty had not meant to reveal such embarrassing phobias as loneliness and butterflies. The longer he thought about it, the more he began to realize that he shouldn't be as angry with her as he was. They had both been vulnerable enough to disclose information about themselves that they would later come to regret.

"Actually, it was per her own request. Mr. Reese," Finch began wearily, "I would appreciate if you ceased fire. I'm completely unscathed. If anything, I have Miss Krause to thank for that. Have the penguins been returned to their rightful sanctuary?"

"Yes. What I would like to know is how she persuaded you to steal them in the first place."

Finch swiveled in his chair to look up at the somber man in a suit. "You truly dislike her, don't you?"

"Do we have a new number?" Reese asked, gladly changing the subject.

"Yes," Finch answered. He followed Reese over to the glass board and pointed to a photo of Fyodor Petrov. "His name is Michael Phillips."

* * *

"Did you hear about those thieves who stole penguins from the zoo?"

Natasha let out a hearty laugh. "Yes. They're my heroes."

"What?" Grace exclaimed. "How on earth could you idolize a pair of criminals? I think what they did was deplorable. Those poor birds. I heard they're still finding random flamingos down in the subway systems."

"They're my heroes for doing the impossible." Kitty chuckled. "I still can't figure out how they did it."

The two walked back to the park after meeting for a cup of afternoon tea. Pistachio held tightly to Kitty shoulder, cooing angrily as Grace offered to hold Beyoncé. The tiny swan sat perfectly in Grace's cupped hands, nothing more than a small puff of white. Kitty veered off to head back to the park Grace always painted at.

"Would you mind stopping at my house first?" Grace asked. "I have something I'd like to give you."

Kitty tilted her head. "What is it?" she asked curiously, trailing behind Grace as she followed her home.

"Well, you left money in my wallet after our first meeting. Quite a bit of money, actually."

"Yes, but I said you could keep it. You _did_ keep me alive while I was drunk."

Grace rounded the corner of her street and sighed. "I know, but . . . I feel a little uncomfortable keeping the money for nothing."

"But it wasn't for nothing," Kitty insisted. "I just said—"

"Wait here. I'll be right back." Disappearing into her apartment, Grace returned with her art bag and thrust it into Kitty's arms.

Kitty eyed it with confusion. "What's this?"

"A commission," Grace explained. "I decided to paint you something in return for the money."

"For _me?_ " Kitty clutched the art bag to her chest, smiling her excitement. "Can I open it now?"

"Please."

Kitty hurried over to the stairs leading up to the apartment and took a seat so she could unzip the bag. Pulling out a reasonably sized canvas, Kitty studied the painting with the same fervor she had studied _Painting_ at the modern art museum. Grace stood on the step behind her, flicking her eyes from her painting to Kitty's face in a worthless attempt to figure out what Kitty thought of it.

The longer Kitty sat motionless, staring expressionless at the painting, the more anxious Grace became. Finally, she could stand it no more. "What do you think?"

Natasha recognized this piece. It was the painting of an Italian dirt road Grace had been working on when they first met. "This is the painting you were going to sell a few months ago."

"I decided against it."

Natasha pointed to an animal lying in the road. It hadn't been there the last time she saw this piece. "Is this a cow?"

"Yes."

"It's dead."

"No," Grace retorted halfheartedly, "it's sleeping."

"Grace, you painted flies around it."

"Italy has plenty of flies."

"I can clearly see one of its exposed ribs."

"Alright," she relented, "it's dead. I thought about what you said, and while I don't agree with a lot of it, I figured you'd enjoy the addition. What's wrong? Do you not like it?"

Kitty pried her eyes away from the painting. "No . . . it's . . . I love it."

Nathan had been in such high spirits lately that it was instantly clear when he was in a bad mood. Over the past few weeks, Grace invited him to gallery openings for old college friends and spent the majority of the time trying her hardest to explain basic artistic concepts. Usually her lectures ended with Kitty commenting something so nonsensical, Grace couldn't help but laugh. It was clear Nathan learned next to nothing from Grace's instruction, but the young man dutifully listened to everything she said anyway.

"Then what it is?" Grace prodded gently. She took a seat next to the suit-clad Natasha and pondered the look on her unshaven face. "You look so sad."

"I've been making things for other people my entire life," Kitty stated softly. "Nobody's ever made me something before."

Kitty felt an arm reach across her shoulders, squeezing her in a brief hug. "You're welcome," said Grace.

* * *

 _Brooklyn, New York_

"Mildred?" Kitty called into the empty apartment. "I'm back."

 _I CAN SEE THAT_

Kitty spread her arms wide, smiling at the computer screen. "Survived another week without spontaneously combusting."

 _WOULD YOU LIKE A MEDAL?_

"There's no need to be a smart ass." Kitty peeled off her facial hair and tossed her suit jacket on the back of a computer chair. "I've come back to apologize for two things."

 _ONLY TWO?_

Kitty raised her eyebrows. "Damn, what is with you? I came back to say sorry for storming out on you last week. I've come to realize my irrational and childlike behavior, and I ask you to forgive me for calling you a bitch."

The screen remained blank for a moment.

 _I FORGIVE YOU_

"Thanks."

 _WHAT IS THE OTHER APOLOGY FOR?_

Kitty reached for her stash of weapons, keeping her eyes locked on Mildred's monitor as she did so. "I'm still going to kill Fyodor." Kitty waited for Mildred to fill her screen with rebuttals and moral arguments in an attempt to persuade her, but the screen remained blank. "Did you hear what I said?"

 _YES_

"You're not going to lecture me?"

 _I CANNOT CONTROL YOU_

"I really am sorry, Mildred, but this is something I need to do."

 _I UNDERSTAND_

Kitty scrunched her eyebrows in confusion at the ease in which Mildred was letting her leave. She'd prepared herself for a long fight about good versus evil, but now the once morally concrete companion was admitting defeat, and Natasha wasn't sure how she felt about it.

Kitty finished loading the last of her firearms and slung the heaviest over one shoulder. "I'll be back in a few hours."

* * *

8:00pm, New York City

"Finch," Reese breathed into his earpiece, "it happened again."

"No," Finch groaned in disbelief. "Mr. Phillips—?"

Reese stood right next to Fyodor's limp body. "Dead as a doornail. Although, at least we know why this time. He was shot through the heart."

"This is the second number in a row we've been unable to save."

Reese could hear how upset the news made his friend, and that made him angry. "I'm on my way back, Harold. I searched the house and found nothing of interest. We'll meet at the library and discuss what to do next. And Finch," Reese added reluctantly, "I think maybe you should call Natasha."

* * *

8:20pm, New York City

Kitty approached the apartment with a heightened sense of eagerness. In only a few short minutes, both of the men responsible for ruining her life would be as good as dead—permanently trapped in their own paralyzed body.

As she neared her destination, Kitty nearly jumped with fright at the buzz of her cellphone ringing. "What?" she answered.

"Miss Krause?" Harold's voice sounded weary. "I know you asked for some time off, but we're having . . . major issues with our system. If you wouldn't mind, I'd like for you to meet me at the library as soon as possible."

"If you say so, Harold. Just give me a few minutes. I'm—" Kitty was going to say something risqué and highly inappropriate, but something made her stop. "I'll see you as soon as I can," she finished.

"Please hurry," Harold all but begged. "This is important."

"Trust me," Kitty whispered after disconnecting the call. "I know all about importance."

* * *

"No, no, no, _you motherfucker!_ " Kitty screamed. The man she'd spent days tracking down was now lying motionless in front of her, swimming in a small pool of his own blood. "You can't die! _I'm_ supposed to kill you!" Kitty kneeled down with the intention of beating his corpse with her fists.

Jerking to life, the man sucked in a desperate gasp, wreathing in pain. His eyes locked onto Natasha's face, and a wave of horrid recognition flashed across his expression.

"What happened?" Kitty asked. "Who did this to you?"

"She—" Fyodor gurgled.

"She?" Kitty gave his shoulders a frantic shake. "She who? _She who?_ "

"She—" Fyodor tried desperately to say. "She . . . said . . . you—" A fresh stream of blood poured out between his lips before the old man gave a final exhale.

Kitty let the body fall backwards against the floor with a loud _thump._

Someone was killing her enemies for her.


	15. The Root of All Evil

**A reviewer requested Finch be involved with more action in the "lady" department, and I can only assume they mean Victoria's Secret, so here you go. Your wish is my command.**

* * *

 _1997, Wetzlar, Germany_

 _"Don't touch me," Kitty ordered._

 _The ballet instructor gave a terse smile at the stubborn little girl. She'd had reluctant students before, but she'd never had one quite as irate as Natasha. After watching the girl struggle to preform a basic plié, the instructor attempted to correct Natasha's stance. "I cannot help you if you don't—"_

 _Natasha turned to face the woman—locking her steely eyes with the teacher's—and enunciated each word sharply like its own little sentence. "Don't. Touch. Me."_

 _Relenting without a fight, the teacher gladly moved on to the next little girl lined up at the barre. Soft classical music echoed through the dance studio as the girls continued to practice their positions._

 _Mildred twisted her neck to look at her sister. "Kitty, your form will never improve if you don't practice."_

 _"I don't want to improve my form," Natasha snapped. "This is all a stupid waste of time."_

 _The rebuke hurt Mildred's feelings—this much Natasha could tell from her sister's expression—but before she could apologize, Mildred muttered, "Why do you always think things I like to do are stupid?"_

* * *

 _The evening was cool and refreshing, and Mildred enjoyed the light breeze against her warm skin. Ballet practice had been extra tiring today, and her muscles were sore with an aching Mildred would never admit to. As she sat on a log overlooking the lake, she heard a twig snap behind her and leapt up._

 _"It's me," Kitty announced._

 _"Oh." When Natasha made no move towards her, Mildred resumed her seat on the log, facing away from her sister. "Go away. I don't want to talk to you right now."_

 _Ignoring the request, Natasha walked up beside her sister and nudged a small music box into her shoulder. "Here," Natasha stated flatly._

 _Mildred's eyes widened with exhilaration once she had a good look at the gift. It was the music box she'd admired each and every time they traveled into town. A small figurine of a ballerina stood atop the wooden box, her stance in a perfect fifth position. She'd asked mother to buy it for her time and time again, to no avail. Now, here it was, in her hands._

 _"I was saving it for your birthday," Natasha explained, "but I decided you should have it now."_

 _Mildred's spark of excitement quickly morphed into suspicion. "Why are you giving me this? You think ballet is stupid."_

 _"Yes, but I don't think you're stupid for liking it." Kitty paused, staring out at the water. There were no birds out this evening. "I'm not good at it, so I don't like it."_

 _Mildred sat up expectantly. "Well, if you'd just practice, you'd be better."_

 _"I have absolutely no aspirations of becoming a dancer, Mildred. I leave that to you."_

 _"Oh?" Mildred quipped, holding the precious music box tightly against her chest. "Then what do you want to do when you grow up?"_

 _"I want to know everything."_

 _Mildred burst into giggles. "Kitty, only old people know everything."_

 _"I don't want to be old. I just want to know everything."_

 _"Well," Mildred exclaimed, leaping up from the log, "Ballet counts as everything, so you better let me help you practice. Here, look—"_

 _Natasha allowed her sister to mold her arms into the proper curves, twist her feet at the proper angles, and even let her help with balancing on pointe. But even after an hour of instruction, Kitty was still no better off than she was at the start. Natasha caught her sister's expression and scowled. "What are you smiling so much for?"_

 _Mildred released the intensity of her smile, stretching her lips happily from ear to ear. "I'm finally better than you at something."_

* * *

 _2012, New York City_

Mr. Reese had been stealthily trailing Finch for the past hour. Despite knowing each other for about a year, John's employer was still reclusive and secretive about his life outside of their job. Reese didn't even know where he lived when not at the library.

"If you wanted to know where dear old Harold spends the two hours a night he's not holed up in the library, you could have just asked."

John turned to look at the figure standing beside him. It was a rare instance when she wasn't dressed like a man, so it took a second for him to recognize her under the driving scarf tied around her hair and the large pink sunglasses. "Natasha."

"John."

Reese turned back to watch Harold purchase a newspaper. "Am I to believe _you_ know where Harold lives?"

"Of course I do. I've known since the first week we met."

"Does he know that you follow him around?"

"No." Kitty smiled and took a drink from her bottle of chocolate milk. "Cats are naturally good at stalking things. I follow you around all the time."

Annoyed, Reese shot her a look when he noticed she was laughing. "What's so funny?"

Kitty took another sip of her milk before answering. "I'm better than you at something."

Unbeknownst to the both of them, Samantha Groves watched the interaction from inside a small café. "How long do you think this will last? The deception?" Curling her slender fingers through the handle of her teacup, Root brought the porcelain to her lips and took a dainty sip.

 _ARE YOU QUESTIONING MY CAPABILITIES?_

"Of course not," Root replied softly. "I'm questioning mine. I can only do so much to keep Natasha and Harold from discovering their mutual connection to Grace."

 _DO AS I SAY AND WE'LL HAVE NOTHING TO WORRY ABOUT_

"Yes, ma'am." A smile slowly spread across Root's lips as she watched Reese and Natasha continue down the sidewalk behind Finch. "What do you need me to do?"

* * *

Finch finished printing out a photo of their latest number and taped it to a large glass board in preparation for Mr. Reese's debriefing. Like some sort of dejected alley cat, Kitty wandered into the library at the crack of dawn—nearly four hours ago—and promptly took a seat on the dog cushion next to Finch's desk. She hadn't moved or spoken since.

Harold watched as the young woman remained in complete stasis. Kitty hadn't greeted him upon arrival, nor had she attempted to touch him or engage in her usual tactless conversations, and he shuttered to think her recent uncharacteristic behavior possibly had something to do with what had happened between them a few nights before. "Miss Krause," Harold dared to ask, "are you feeling ill?"

Kitty blinked out of her stupor and looked up at him for the first time since her arrival. "What? Oh. No, Finch, I'm fine."

"Alright, now I _know_ something's wrong." Harold took a tentative seat back at the computer desk and peered down at her. "You only ever call me Finch when you're upset."

Natasha furrowed her brow. "I've been thinking."

"About?"

"Remember the number we had last week? The banker? After I saved us both from getting blown up in a hotel demolition, I looked up at the sky that night to search for Leo, and I realized something."

"And what would that be?"

"We're all just space dust," she answered, sounding annoyed. "That's what we become when we die and turn to ash. We're nothing but tiny molecules wandering around a planet that's orbiting a sun capable of incinerating us at any moment. And then I started asking, _what's the point?_ Why am I doing this? Saving people? Who cares what we do while we're alive? The end is inevitable. We're all going to end up as space dust, so what does it matter?"

Harold allowed himself a moment to gather his thoughts. "I must admit," he finally said after a long sigh, "when I asked you what was wrong, I did not anticipate an existential crisis. To be honest, I was hoping you'd say you have a cold, and it could all be settled with a nice bowl of soup."

Natasha deflated against her cushion. "I'm sorry."

"No," Finch backpedaled, "no, don't be sorry. It would be mendacious of me to say I've never pondered similar ideas myself from time to time. I think it's safe to assume most people do at least once in their life."

Kitty scooted closer to his chair. All of these thoughts had clouded her mind until she was overwhelmed with issues that didn't seem to have answers. Everything in Natasha's life had a concrete answer up to this point, and the fact that this wasn't something she could measure or prod or experiment on only served to frustrate her more. "What do you think?"

Finch couldn't help but chuckle. "I'm not entirely sure I comprehend the question. Is it a query as to my beliefs regarding the creation of the world? The meaning of life? The inevitability of death?"

"I don't _know_ what I'm asking, Finch."

Kitty's frustration was written all over her face and was clearly evident in the pitch of her voice. It made Finch unhappy. "Natasha," he began slowly, "I think . . . in the grand scheme of things . . . we are all small, but no one is insignificant. What we do . . . with the numbers . . . yes, you could look at it as nothing more than postponing the inevitable. But," he paused to stare at Kitty, waiting for her to look up at him, "even if this is all for naught, and there is nothing waiting for us after we become . . . _space dust_ . . . wouldn't you rather have lived a good life regardless? A happy life? Or if not that, than at least one in which you provided other people with happiness?"

Natasha broke eye contact, her blank gaze wandering around the room until she was staring at the floor. Harold wanted to comfort her, but he wasn't sure what else to say on the subject. Unsure if his consolations had helped at all, Finch turned back towards his computer to finish research on their latest number.

A few minutes later, he barely heard her say, "I'm miserable, Finch."

Harold felt her head fall against his knee as she relaxed her body beside him. Instead of fighting the contact, he rested a hand on the top of her head in a gesture of solidarity. "Natasha," Harold asked, "do you know what Star Wars is?"

"What?"

"The movie, Star Wars?"

"I didn't grow up watching movies, Finch."

"It's a virtual checklist of things you enjoy," he explained. Harold had grown up during the peak of the trilogy's popularity in the 70's, and he'd always had fond memories of the series. His only hope was _A New Hope_ would lift Natasha's spirits. "Would you like to watch it?"

"Right now?"

"Unless you have other plans."

"But—" Much to Finch's relief, Kitty stood up for the first time since her arrival. "We're supposed to be working on a number."

"Take my laptop. I'll continue research and call you over if I need any assistance." He made a shooing motion with his hand. "Go on."

As Finch gathered more information on their latest person of interest, he periodically glanced over at Kitty, but her stony expression was always the same. In fact, Harold was more than a little disappointed at her bored gaze. He'd hoped—if nothing else—the fact that it takes place in outer space would have been enough to make her happy.

Finch listened as the final scene came to a close and the iconic theme played as the credits rolled. He opened his mouth to apologize for recommending something she so obviously did not enjoy, but closed it almost immediately when he saw her countenance of contempt had been unexpectedly replaced with an overjoyed expression.

"That was amazing," Natasha announced, typing away at the keyboard. "I'm watching it again."

"Wouldn't you rather watch the next movie?"

Kitty stopped typing and looked up with wide eyes. "There's _more?_ "

* * *

Kitty leaned closer to the storefront's glass display and pointed to a thong. "I do not understand the intents and purposes of this garment."

Grace took a sip of her coffee and tilted her head at the pathetic pink strip of cloth. "To be honest," she commented with a hint of amusement, "neither do I."

"If what you're wearing is so tight it shows a panty line," Kitty rationalized, "there's no use in wearing any undergarments at all. Why put yourself through the torture?"

"I wish people would just wear clothes that fit properly. It would solve a lot of problems." Shaking her head at the statement, Grace gave a small chuckle. "But I guess that's just me being an old geezer."

Natasha looked up from the window with a confused frown. "You're not an old geezer."

"Well, I'm certainly not as young as I used to be."

"How old are you?"

Grace snorted, feigning outrage. "A gentleman should never inquire a lady's age."

"I'd say about twenty-eight."

"Now you're just teasing me."

"Okay, well then how old do you think I am?"

Pursing her lips in thought, Grace guessed, "Twenty-five?"

"I'm twenty-two," Kitty scoffed, "but thanks."

Grace cradled her coffee cup as they passed more storefronts advertising the latest fashion trends. Through general observations, she'd come to realize Natasha's inherent restlessness and subsequently suggested they go for walks while they caught up with each other's lives. Although Grace originally suggested they walk around the park—so it wouldn't be such a chore to hear one another speak—Kitty explained that the incessant noise of the city kept her calm. " _The louder, the better,"_ she'd confided. " _I lose my mind in quiet places."_

Grace took a final sip of her coffee only to swallow a mouthful of bitter dregs. Tossing the paper cup in the nearest recycling bin, she tilted her head back to look up at her much taller friend. "How is the new job treating you?"

Usually, Natasha's face would light up at the opportunity to talk about herself, but this question only produced a small smile. "It's great."

"Bust any bad guys lately?"

"One or two," Kitty answered. "I've recently spent most of my free time doing a bit of programming. There's a side project I've been coding for about six years, and I'm finally close to completing it."

"I'm absolutely useless with technology, so it won't do you any good to explain it to me. You can try, if you want to," she added, laughing.

"Can I ask you a question first?"

"Hm?"

"Do you ever feel like a completely worthless piece of shit?"

" _I beg your pardon?_ "

"Never mind."

"No, no, no," Grace refuted and reached out for his arm to keep him from disappearing into the surrounding crowds. "You can't just go running off after asking something like that. I _knew_ there was something bothering you. What's all this about?"

"I'm not entirely sure." Kitty shook her head. "I just . . . Sometimes I feel like no matter what I do, I'll never truly be happy again. I'll never live up to my potential. My job helps a little. It feels good to help people."

"What you do is a very worthwhile endeavor," Grace praised. "Why on earth would that make you feel worthless?"

"As soon as I get home, I think about how they're going to die one day anyway, and then I feel worthless all over again. My profession is pointless."

"We're all going to die someday, and there's nothing anyone can do to stop that. You're just giving these people a second chance. One more shot before the end, whenever that might be." Grace paused to reflect, lighting up when she thought of something. "Like the little boy you saved from a burning building! Who knows how long of a life he'll have? He could grow up to become a doctor who saves thousands of lives, but he'd be dead if you hadn't intervened."

"I see your point."

"You might want to rethink why you're doing what you're doing. It could help put things into perspective. Who was the first person you helped on the job?"

Kitty halted abruptly in the middle of the sidewalk. A man rammed into her from behind and swore under his breath when she refused to move out of his way. Angry individuals sidestepped Kitty as she continued to stand motionless, thinking. It wasn't until Grace approached to find out if he was okay that Kitty broke out of her thoughts, all smiles.

"Grace? You're a genius."

Grace was stunned silent, unable to move as Kitty grasped either side of her face and leaned down to plant a long kiss on her forehead. Grace watched, confused, as the young man hurried down the street. She shouted, " _What did I say?_ " bewilderedly at his retreating figure, but her words were swallowed whole by the crowd.

* * *

"I've got my money on alcoholic stupor. Fusco's bet is the Russians finally caught up with her. What do you think happened, Finch?"

"I think you both need to give the poor girl some well deserved credit."

"She's been radio silent for almost thirteen days. Something had to have happened. Any word from her mysterious friend on the phone?"

"No." Finch tired to hide the disappointment in his voice. "No word from anyone."

"Do you want me to go back out and look for her?" Reese offered when he noticed his employer's dismay. "If we haven't received a new number yet, I have some free time to kill."

"I've found her!" Finch announced with an air of relief. His fingers clicked at the keyboard with incredible speed and he brought up bank statements and property deeds. "I've been keeping an eye on her finances. It seems . . . she's recently spent every cent of her savings on a rather substantial purchase. That must be why I haven't been able to trace her whereabouts. Everything has been pending for . . . since she left. Twelve days ago."

Reese leaned over to better see the screen. "Did she blow it all on a rare asteroid?"

Finch clicked on a newspaper article and brought it to full screen. The title announced, _Anonymous Tip Uncovers_ _Illegal Prostitution Ring._ Another headline read, _Brooklyn's Leading Brothel Owner Charged With Underage Sex Trafficking. Building Purchased by Business Mogul, Naum Pevsner, Set to Enforce Major Changes._ Kitty was wise enough not to allow her picture taken for interviews, so the accompanying photo was of the building itself.

Finch skimmed over the articles and relaxed against his seat, a smile spreading readily across his lips. "She spent it on the brothel Miss McCully worked at."

* * *

 _Brooklyn, New York_

Harold watched as a frantic man yelled, "You can't do this to me, you bastard! _Agh!_ " Picking the rowdy man up by the back of his pants and collared shirt, a monstrous bouncer tossed the unwanted guest out onto the street. The man landed with a roll, shaking his head when he finally righted himself. "Don't go in there, man," he said as soon as he noticed Harold looking up at the establishment. "It's a damn madhouse. Some asshole bought the place and turned it into a fucking joke." His face set in a furious frown. "These bitches don't even get completely naked anymore, _and you can't touch them!_ " Shooting the bouncer one final glare, the man dusted himself off and hurried away.

It still never ceased to surprise Finch just how vile humans could behave. Harold watched as the repugnant man ambled down the street before turning his attention back to the building Kitty purchased. A neon sign had been recently installed over the doorway, and it flashed the dark green words, "Jabba's Palace."

"Are you coming in or not, buddy?" the bouncer rumbled in the deepest, most threatening voice Harold had ever heard. "There's a $100 entrance fee."

Finch was stunned silent at the sight of the man. Not only was he monstrous in size, but he was also dressed like a monster, with painted green skin, a pig snout, and little white tusks protruding from his bottom lip. Harold wondered if the man had any practical use for the long spear he was holding, but he greatly doubted it—the man's bare hands would be more than enough to subdue a NFL player. "I'm here to talk to—"

"You're business is your business," the bouncer interrupted, "but if your business is inside this building, it'll set you back $100 dollars, my friend."

Finch pulled out his wallet and placed the crisp bill in the man's enormous palm.

"Enjoy yourself. But," the bouncer growled, "absolutely no touching the performers."

"I wouldn't dream of it," Harold answered nervously. "I'm not here to see them. I'm here to speak with your boss. I'm a personal friend. If you'd just tell her Mr. Wren is here, I'm sure she—"

"She?" he interrupted. "I don't work for no she."

Steeling himself against the man with arms thicker than both Finch's legs put together, Finch took a calming breath. "I'm here to speak with Naum Pevsner."

Ever since Kitty re-opened this building, there were more than a few men who'd demanded to speak to Kitty personally about their grievances. Nickolas, Charlie, and a slew of other professional bodyguards had since been hired to see to it that anyone expressing dissatisfaction were promptly shown the door. But as Nickolas stared down at the shorter, much smaller man meekly offering him his business card as proof of his identity, he saw none of the usual signs denoting a troublemaker. "Hey, Charlie?" Nicholas boomed down the hallway leading into the club. "This guy wants to see Mr. Pevsner. Give him an escort."

* * *

When the establishment had been a brothel, the expanse of the building consisted of rooms where clients could have their privacy. The walls had since been smashed in, creating a wide, open space currently bustling with people. As Harold rounded the corner into the lounge, he was greeted with a thick cloud of smoke, a raucous live band belting out the Mos Eisley Cantina theme, and a young woman covered in blue body paint wearing an intricate green and gold bikini.

"Hello," she said in tiny voice and adjusted the serving dish in her hand. "Would you like something to drink?"

"Not now, sweetheart," Charlie rumbled kindly. "He's here to see Big Brother."

"Hey, I'll take a drink!" a man yelled from a nearby table, and the girl disappeared into the crowd.

Back in the dressing room, Kitty wore her best suit—her dark hair slicked back in a tiny ponytail—while a gaggle of beautiful young woman sat all around her like a sacred deity. Each of the ladies were either dressed like some sort of alien race—painted an assortment of colors—or they were dressed in the typical brown robes of a Jedi. One of the women—painted red with intricate black Sith tattoos stenciled all up her arms—rested her head delicately against Kitty's shoulder. The smallest of the group was the only woman not covered in body paint or clothed in a robe, and she sat curled up in Kitty's lap, propping up a hardcover book. Every once in a while, the girl would point to a word and inquisitively look up at Kitty for clarification.

Natasha glanced up when Finch entered the room, her face instantly brightening at the sight of him. " _Harooooooooold,_ my main man!" she shouted from across the room, patting at the shoulders of the women lounging around her. "This is the friend I told you all about. Go get him, my little kittens!"

Finch tried to remain still as the excited women scampered over and surrounded him. "No, no, no, ladies," Harold pleaded when a few of them leaned in to kiss his cheek, "please don't do that—"

One of the girls was already teary-eyed, two steady streams of green makeup running down her face. "I think what you did for Bonnie is just the nicest thing I've ever heard in my entire life. Do you think you could find me a scholarship?"

Kitty clapped her hands three times in succession and shouted, "Hurry, ladies! Happy hour is about to start."

Finch flashed Kitty a small smile when he finally made it to the other side of the room. "I wondered when I'd hear from you again," he said waving a hand around at the expansive collection of Star Wars related memorabilia. "I see you've made some significant modifications. The band is a nice touch."

Kitty shook her head in amusement. "You'd be surprised just how many people pay top dollar to have cheap beer served to them by a Jedi. I even have female customers now. People bring their _dates_ here, Harold. I had to start kicking people out on a rotation schedule to make sure this place didn't become a fire hazard." Placing a hand on the top of the head of the skittish girl standing next to her, Kitty announced, "Bianca and I are going on a field trip. You should come with us, Harold."

* * *

The night was loud and bright and more beautiful than anything Bianca had ever seen. Everything was so dizzying that it took more than a little restraint to keep from sprinting off into the street. Every time she had the urge to run free and explore, her already tight hold on Natasha's arm tightened even more.

"Half of them were significantly underage when they were recruited." Natasha's expression spared none of her disgust. "And I use the word _recruited_ lightly, the sick son of a bitch. Bonnie had it easy. The rest of them weren't ever allowed outside, so it doesn't matter what I say," Kitty explained in a hushed tone to keep Bianca from hearing, "this poor little one is still scared to death that I'll kill her if she ever attempts to leave."

"Deplorable," Finch commented with equal amounts of disgust. "I'm glad to see your absence from our team has been for the betterment of mankind."

"What can I say? I have a soft spot for prostitutes. Harold," Natasha confided, looking slightly confused, "for the first time in a long time, I feel _good_ about myself. It's . . . a very peculiar feeling."

"I think Miss McCully would be thankful for what you're doing."

"Speaking of Bonnie, I hear her first runway début is coming up. We should go and surprise her!"

"That sounds like a lovely idea. I think we—" Distracted by the sudden vibration of his phone, Finch reached into his pocket to check for messages. He anticipated a text from Reese, Fusco, or even Detective Carter. He did not expect the app he'd installed after _the accident_ to flash its cursory warning that Grace was within 300 feet of his current position.

"You think what, Harold?" Kitty asked.

"I think we should go shopping." Without explanation, Harold linked arms with Natasha and steered her towards the mall.

* * *

Harold inhaled another lungful of Victoria's Secret perfume and shook his head wearily. "I don't understand how this keeps happening to me."

"Hey," Kitty refuted, "you're the one who suggested we go shopping. Bianca wants to shop here, and the strap broke on my favorite bra, so I need a new one. Nobody said you had to follow us inside."

Bianca appeared with a set of frilly pink pajamas and a timid smile. "Is this too expensive, Big Brother? I can pick something cheaper."

"It's _your_ birthday present," Kitty answered. "Get whatever you want, sweetheart. I'm buying."

Her previous boss had never allowed her outside, and he certainly never bought her presents. With an expression halfway between utter joy and utter confusion, Bianca hurried over to the perfume.

Kitty glanced over at Harold and winked happily. "Having money makes everything better."

"There's more to life than money, Miss Krause."

Kitty raised an eyebrow. "That's easy for a billionaire to say."

A sales associate approached them from behind a rack of lingerie. "Can I help you gentlemen?"

Kitty threw an arm across Finch's shoulders and pulled him close. "We're here to buy the sexiest underthings for our harem."

Finch's lips pressed together hard as he shot Kitty an annoyed side eye, not even bothering to verbally refute her claims.

* * *

Unable to stomach the scent of the store any longer, Finch sat outside on a bench. Thirty minutes later, he stood when he noticed Kitty approaching but froze when he noticed Bianca wasn't with her.

Kitty scratched at the back of her neck. "Ahhhh, Finch?"

"What?"

"Could I possibly get my next paycheck upfront? I seem to be a little low in funds at the moment. You know . . . with my new investment and all. I'll pay you back, I swear."

Reluctantly, Finch followed her into the store, already dreading the smell of fourteen different scents all mixed into one. Harold couldn't help the look of disbelief plastered on his face when he saw what lay next to the register in front of Bianca. A massive pile of t-shirts, sweaters, sweat pants, bras, underwear, and perfume had already been folded and bagged awaiting the final swipe of a card.

Bianca's excited expression immediately fell at the sight of Finch's apprehension. "I'm sorry," she hastily apologized, her face draining of what little color it had. "Please don't be mad at me. I can put some of it back if you want me to."

It was such a pitiful sight. As frightened tears welled in the girl's eyes, Finch felt compelled to buy her the entire store to keep her from crying. "Happy birthday," he said cheerfully and swiped his card.

"You're the best, Harold." Kitty leaned down to press her lips against his temple.

* * *

 _2012, New York City_

"I'm sorry, but I still can't get over the glasses."

"Shut up," Bonnie snapped sarcastically. "Leave it to you to tease me after not seeing me for months."

"I'm not teasing," Kitty refuted. "I think they look nice! It's just weird seeing you in glasses."

"Yeah? Well, I for one am more than ecstatic that I can see clearly now."

"Who is that?"

"Who?" Bonnie briefly looked up from her clipboard. "Samantha? Yeah, she's great. One of the better models I've worked with."

As if hearing her name whispered across the backstage hustle and bustle, Root turned and found Natasha, and the two engaged in a staring match. Root was the first to look away, but not before flashing a coy smile.

" _Hands off_ ," Bonnie warned. "She's _my_ model and I need her for at least the next five months."

"What?" Kitty blinked, confused. "I didn't say anything."

"You didn't have to." With a snap, Bonnie closed her planner and strode purposefully towards the front of the stage.

* * *

 _HER NAME IS SAMANTHA CATMULL_

Kitty stared at the computer screen as Mildred pulled up the woman's fake information. "She owns a dance studio?"

 _SAMANTHA TEACHES ALL FORMS OF DANCE_

 _HER SPECIALITY IS BALLET_

The webcam noted Kitty's pensive expression and increased the probability percentage that this plan would turn out a success.

 _I'VE ALREADY MADE YOU AN APPOINTMENT_

"Wait . . . what? An appointment for what?"

 _SAMANTHA IS AN IDEAL TEACHER FOR YOUR EMPLOYEES_

 _DRINK SALES WILL INCREASE DRAMATICALLY IF THE WOMEN PREFORM A CHOREOGRAPHED DANCE_ _EVERY HOUR_

 _I'VE TAKEN THE LIBERTY OF CALCULATING PROJECTED REVENUE_

Charts estimating the sales increase popped up on the screen, but instead of growing excited at the prospect of tripling her income, Natasha only looked uncomfortable. "I don't know about this, Mildred."

 _YOU FIND HER ATTRACTIVE_

 _THIS INTIMIDATES YOU_

" _What?"_ Kitty reached back and scratched irritably at her neck. "You're so full of shit."

 _YOUR HOSTILITY CONFIRMS MY SUSPICIONS_

 _YOU WILL MEET HER TOMORROW AT THIS ADDRESS_

"I can't meet her tomorrow. I have to work. Finch says we got a new number this morning."

 _CALL IN SICK_

"I'm sorry . . ." Kitty rationalized with a coughed laugh of disbelief. "Did you just suggest I _lie?_ "

 _THE MEETING WILL TAKE AN HOUR AT MOST_

"I said no."

 _YOUR ASSINGMENT WITH HAROLD AND JOHN WILL NOT BE COMPROMISED_

" _No."_

 _YOU HAVEN'T EVEN LOOKED AT HER RESUME YET_

"Damn it, Mildred," Kitty lashed out, " _what do you want from me?_ "

The screen went blank, a single vertical line blinking against the background.

 _I DON'T WANT YOU TO BE SAD ANYMORE_

* * *

 _2012, Manhattan_

It brought back memories of her childhood.

Kitty stood off to the side of the ballet studio and watched the end of a class full of students. Not a single student was over the age of seven, and by this point half the class had gone rogue, practicing their own made up routines right in front of the mirror.

After the last student sauntered off with her parent, Root approached the corner where Natasha was still standing awkwardly. "You must be Mr. Pevsner." Root's footsteps made no sound as she padded across the dance floor in a pair of soft pink ballet slippers. "I'm excited to be working with you."

Kitty forced her face into a smile and reached out to accept a handshake.

"If you don't mind," Root continued, "there are a few preliminary questions I have about the class I'll be teaching. Your email stated they're all over the age of eighteen, correct? Do they have any prior dancing experience?"

Everything about the woman was distracting—the sultry sound of her voice, her long slender body, the faint smell of her floral perfume—but nothing was more distracting than her chocolate brown eyes. She wasn't nearly as pale as Mildred had been, but she had her eyes.

"Mr. Pevsner?" Root repeated. "Sir? Hello?"

"I'm sorry. This was a mistake."

"What?" Root reached out to grab Kitty's arm. "Are you worried about qualifications? I know most of my recent classes have been ten and under, but I assure you I mostly instructed adults back in Berlin. I can give you a demonstration if you'd like."

"No." Overwhelmed by the memory of her sister, Kitty turned and walked out of the studio, disappearing into the city.

Root reached up and tapped her earpiece. "I'm sorry. I don't know what I did wrong."

 _YOU DID NOTHING WRONG_

 _I PROJECTED THIS MIGHT HAPPEN_

 _GET CHANGED_

 _I HAVE ANOTHER IDEA_

* * *

"We have a new number," Finch announced as Kitty and Reese rounded the corner of the library. "And I'm pleased to see the two of you reporting for duty. I'll need you both today."

Kitty walked up behind Finch's chair and slid her arms around his chest, caressing his ribs with her fingers. "I _always_ need you, Harold."

"And here I was thinking you were making behavioral improvements," Finch muttered.

Reese studied the photo already taped to the board by the window. The woman was a young, attractive brunette. "Who is she?"

"Her name is Samantha Catmull," Finch answered, and Kitty immediately released her hold on him.


	16. Sentient Laptops Give Subpar Lapdances

**I finally know where this is all going. Buckle up, and hold onto your pizza.**

* * *

 _2007, Massachusetts Institute of Technology_

 _Killing people was easy. It was restraint that Natasha found difficult._

 _Greer said this is what made her a perfect fit for their company, but Kitty knew it was Mildred they really wanted. The only reason Decima Technologies tolerated Kitty at all was to ensure Mildred's cooperation while they attempted to understand her complicated operating system. Missions like this one were formalities to keep Natasha occupied and out of the way._

 _MIT was home to the most brilliant engineering minds in the world. One project in particular quickly caught Decima's eye, so they sent Natasha to retrieve it for them. The building was dimly lit and quiet at this time of night. All of the students were away by now in their dorms and apartments, sleeping soundly as Kitty made her way upstairs to steal years of their hard work. Kitty had been given orders not to accumulate casualties, if at all possible, but when a nosy graduate student lingering around one of the rooms refused to leave her alone, she put a bullet in his chest._

 _PLEASE, STOP THIS SENSELESS VIOLENCE_

 _YOU ARE IN MOURNING FOR YOUR FATHER_

 _"What if I am?" Kitty strode down the hallway towards the upstairs labs. "It's not like you know what mourning is anyway. You can't help."_

 _EXPLAIN IT TO ME AND I CAN_

 _"I can't explain it."_

 _WHY?_

 _"Because you wouldn't understand. You're not human." Kitty removed the earpiece and pocketed it, swiftly shooting a security guard who hadn't had a chance to ask her for security clearance. It was only after she'd riffled through his pockets for the key card to override the elevator that she realized he was still breathing. Pulling away a bloody hand from his chest, the man opened his mouth to beg or curse or call for help, Kitty never knew. She raised the gun and pulled the trigger a second time, spreading blood and brain tissue across the freshly polished linoleum. "And I would count my blessings if I were you, Mildred."_

* * *

 _2012, New York City_

Fusco rolled his shoulders in a futile attempt to relax. In mere seconds he was about to meet some of the biggest players in HR—all of them directly linked to NYPD. There was no room for error, and nobody knew that more than he did. Taking a deep, settling breath before entering the building, Fusco reminded himself over and over that these people couldn't read minds. There was no way they knew he was working with Reese and Finch and Natasha.

Still, he couldn't help but succumb, however minor, to paranoia. _Glasses would be proud,_ he thought.

One by one, Simmons introduced Fusco to Councilman Seth Larsson, NYPD detective Sam Romano, and Police Captain Peter Lewis. After a few jokes at Fusco's expense, the men at the table gestured for him to take a seat so they could talk business. Councilman Larsson nodded at Fusco. "I hear your partner has been assigned the Mildred Krause case. She dig up anything of use?"

"Nah," Fusco lied. "That one's a dead end, far as I know. Why?"

Detective Simmons began to reprimand Fusco for asking questions, but Larsson raised a hand to cut him off. "If she _does_ happen to find anything, Simmons here should be the first to know. Mildred Krause is a top priority for the Feds, but we've got more lucrative fish to fry at the moment." The beefy man slid a file across the table in front of Simmons, and Fusco was just able to see the picture of the woman inside. "Her name's Samantha Catmull. Part-time model for the local fashion collage and full-time dance instructor for bratty upper-class children. The Russians have already paid in full. Five million. She's to be handed to them alive and unharmed."

* * *

"I don't understand." Root tried her best to feign genuine confusion. "Are you rehiring me?"

Natasha decided to tell Finch about her already established business ties to the woman known as Samantha Catmull. After much deliberation, Finch agreed that keeping Samantha at the club would be the best option for now. It made it easiest for both Kitty and Reese to keep an eye on her, and it kept Samantha from becoming suspicious of either of them following her every move. The only problem was that Natasha had never officially hired her in the first place.

"No." Kitty paced in front of the massive window, peering out at the people passing by. "Technically, I'm hiring you for the first time."

"What are you looking at?"

Kitty froze. "What?"

"You keep looking out the window like you're waiting for someone."

"No, no, it's . . . I'm on a time crunch. Time is money." Making a show to check her watch, Kitty added, "Will you take the job?"

 _RESPECTFULLY DECLINE_

"I don't know," Root said, sounding unsure. "I've had two more clients sign up for lessons since yesterday—"

"If it's money you want," Kitty added, "I can offer upscale lodgings, triple whatever these parents are paying you, and . . . I don't know, a car? You want a new car?" Root parted her lips to refute, but Kitty cut her off. "Please don't make me beg. My girls need a teacher, and from one German to another, I'd like it to be you."

 _ACCEPT_

"You drive a hard bargain, Mr. Pevsner." Root leaned back against the ballet barre, stretching one leg out and tapping it against the floor before answering, "How can I say no?"

* * *

Root was no stranger to death. Her world had been shrouded in it since childhood. First it was her friend Hannah, then her crazy aunt Nadine, and finally, her mother—lost to the sickeningly slow decay of cancer. Life was nothing more than one electronic heist after the other, hacking accounts to fund food, shelter, and supplies for the next job. Just when her existence began to feel truly meaningless, she got a phone call with an offer to partake in something extraordinary.

 _THEY ARE WATCHING YOU_

 _JOHN IS ACROSS THE STREET TO YOUR LEFT_

 _NATASHA IS ALMOST A BLOCK BACK_

 _SHE'S WATCHING FROM A WINDOW_

"I'm not used to such popularity," Root replied. She'd excused herself from instruction at Natasha's club with the pretense of needing fresh air and a cup of coffee from her favorite café a block away. "I find I rather enjoy it."

Mildred's plan was simple. She calculated that Kitty was her own worst enemy, and it was only a matter of time before her self-destructive behavior ended in either homicide or suicide. In order to ensure this didn't happen, the overprotective machine decided to play matchmaker, believing that if Kitty could form a meaningful attachment to another human, it would keep her tethered to the world in a way she hadn't been since her twin's assassination.

Root was the perfect surrogate. Not only did she follow orders with the upmost precision, but she also physically resembled Mildred in a subtle sense—just enough to grab Natasha's attention. Bringing the two women together was as easy as a millisecond bank transfer to HR from a fictitious Russian clan. This would draw the highest-ranking government hit men—men currently searching for Natasha—out into the open. With Mildred's help, it was only a matter of time before three more agents assigned to the Mildred Krause case were sufficiently dealt with. By staying close to Kitty at all times, Root would physically protect her in ways Mildred could not, all while fulfilling Natasha's interpersonal needs.

But as the hours dragged on, it became very apparent that Mildred's attempts to find Natasha a lifelong companion had not accounted for human error. For seemingly no reason at all, Kitty's mood curdled the longer Root attempted intimacy. None of Mildred's carefully constructed phrases helped soften her up either, so she instructed Root to increase the aggressiveness of her flirtations.

Reese sat at a small table hidden in the shadows of the far corner of the lounge. Kitty closed the club for the next week in preparation for Root's dance lessons, and the room was currently full of women awaiting instruction. Most of Kitty's employees were somewhat familiar with the basics of classical ballet, and those who were not made great strides during the lesson through sheer determination to appease their new boss. Reese felt calmed while watching them practice. Each of them were so happy with their new jobs that they put in extra effort to learn the choreography. It was nice to see them smiling for a change.

After the second official dance lesson was over, and the tired women dispersed to take a shower, Reese called Harold for an update. "Finch, you're not going to believe this."

"Don't tell me," Finch guessed, "Miss Krause has made another inflammatory remark and scared Miss Catmull away."

"No, actually," Reese replied, no longer attempting to conceal the humor in his smoky voice. With each deep thump of the bass, Root sensually swung her hips in time to the music. Living up to her nickname, Kitty curled up against a barstool, her bristling expression closely resembling an agitated cat. "I think they both forgot I was here. Samantha has been very . . . persistent."

"What do you mean?"

"Looks like Natasha's disguise has finally gotten the better of her. Samantha's completely infatuated." Reese watched, more than a little amused, as Natasha attempted to negotiate her way out of Root's unwanted embrace. "Hasn't worked out in her favor, though. Seems Natasha is all talk until someone shows genuine interest. I'm proof enough of that. Told her once that she had an attractive face, and she hasn't flirted with me since. You should try seducing her sometime, Finch. Maybe then she'll leave you alone." Reese waited for a response, but there was nothing but dead silence on the other line. "Finch, are you there?"

"Yes, Mr. Reese."

"Did you hear what I said?"

"I'm mulling it over."

" _Get off of me!_ " Kitty screamed from across the room.

"I'll have to get back to you, Finch. I think it's time I step in," Reese breathed into the phone, more a muted laugh than an actual statement, "before Natasha accidentally becomes the perpetrator."

* * *

 _OUR ATTEMPTS PROVE FUTILE_

After trying—and failing—to win Natasha's affections, Root watched Kitty furiously order Reese to stay at the club before storming off into the night. Root had done everything Mildred told her to, said every line word for word, and yet it hadn't played out favorably. Root finished brushing her hair and set the comb down gently on the dressing table, folding her feminine hands in her lap. "What's our next move?"

 _I NEED TO REASSESS NATASHA'S DESIRES_

Taking a deep breath, Root fought to keep her voice even. "I'm sorry I didn't live up to your expectations."

 _APOLOGIES ARE UNNECESSARY_

 _OUR FAILURE WAS NOT DUE TO INADEQUACY ON YOUR PART_

 _I MISCALCULATED_

 _THERE IS ANOTHER WHO CAN FILL THE ROLE_

 _HE CAN ALSO ASSIST US IN OUR SECONDARY MISSION_

Relieved that the machine was not furious—or even particularly disappointed—at her failure, Root listened as the young women backstage emerged from their rooms, chattering loudly amongst themselves. "And how, exactly, does this new plan involve me?"

 _WHEN THINGS GO AWRY, NATASHA SEEKS HAROLD'S COMPANY_

 _HE WOULD HAVE BEEN MY INITIAL CHOICE IF NOT FOR THE COMPLICATIONS_

"Complications?"

 _HAROLD VIEWS NATASHA WITH A LESS THAN AMOROUS DISPOSITION_

 _WE ARE GOING TO CHANGE THAT_

* * *

Finch dropped down in his chair to rest his aching back—sighing in resignation—before lifting his tea and taking a sip. "Are you at least going to elaborate as to why?"

"I shouldn't have to, Finch." Harold barely had time to listen to Reese's explanation of what led up to Kitty storming out of her own establishment before the angry woman had appeared in the library. "If I want another assignment," she seethed, "I don't see why I can't have it. Reese is more than capable of looking into this one on his own."

"That's not how this works. I can't conjure cases out of thin air. We receive new numbers only when someone is in danger. Right now, that person is Miss Catmull." Finch watched as Kitty paced in front of the little pool where Beyoncé floated around in during the day. The swan had been fast asleep, but now the library was alive with the sound of tiny webbed feet slapping against the floor as Beyoncé followed closely behind Natasha, cheeping happily that her imprinted mother had finally returned home. "I think maybe you've exaggerated a little," Finch mused. "Tell me what happened. No embellishments, please."

More than happy to relate the story, Kitty swung around to rant, "I couldn't say a single word without her twisting it into something ridiculously sexual."

"You don't say. I can't even begin to _imagine_ what that must be like." Finch raised his eyebrows in mock sympathy. "Anything else?"

Kitty was far too frazzled to catch his sarcasm. "She kept touching me, Finch. Every time I turned around she had a hand on my arm or my shoulder or my leg—" Kitty cut off her sentence and leaned in close to his face, her eyes wide. "She got _this close_ to my face and just stared at me. I have never in my life met such a lunatic who failed to comprehend the basics of personal space."

"Miss Krause, if I were to say to you _pot calling the kettle black,_ would you understand what I meant?"

"No." Kitty stopped pacing, encouraging Beyoncé to sprint joyous laps around her legs. "Why?"

It was all so ridiculous, in the end Harold simply couldn't fight the urge to chortle.

* * *

 _Queens, New York_

"Hello, boys," Root greeted cheerfully. "It's so nice to finally have all my eggs in one basket."

Darkness settled across the basement as the last sliver of light peeking through the open doorway slowly extinguished with a loud _clank_. Once the door was closed, it was impossible to open without Mildred's approval. Root reached out and yanked a small chain hanging from the ceiling, and a bulb spurted to life with a puny yellow glow.

"I'm sure you're all wondering how little old me rounded up such highly trained soldiers such as yourselves, and . . . well—" Root paused to give the three tied up men a grin stretched from ear to ear. "—that's a story for another day. _Today_ we're going to talk about someone named Mildred Krause. I'm sure you're all familiar with the case, considering you were scouring the city for her before HR assigned you to me. What I _don't_ know is just how much your government knows." Suddenly upbeat, she chirped, "That's what these nifty little syringes are for. One injection and you'll be willingly spilling your guts about your childhood sweethearts. But, please don't," she added agitatedly. "I hate it when people waste my time."

As soon as Root pulled down the fabric gagging the first man, he attempted to spit at her, but his mouth was too dry to produce any saliva. The sedatives already running through his system had left him too dizzy and dehydrated to attempt escape, and all he could think to croak was, "Fuck you."

"A tempting offer, I'm sure, but you're not really my type." Root lifted up one of the syringes and held it next to her face. "My employer has . . . moral reservations that I don't. Torture makes her uncomfortable. So I'll try not to enjoy myself. _Too_ much," she added with a small smile and stuck him in the side of the neck.

* * *

 _New York City_

"Harold?" Kitty's voice trailed up the stairs to the library.

"I'm on my computer, Miss Krause." Finch could tell something was wrong by the uneven sound of her footsteps rounding the bend. Natasha enjoyed sneaking up on him while he worked. Stealth was a skill she used time and time again to startle him in the mornings, making sure to always plant a kiss on his unsuspecting face before he could flinch away from the contact. The fact that he could hear her loudly shuffling around like some rabid, disoriented animal was a terrible sign. "I never received an update from you about Miss Catmull. Mr. Reese says you—"

Kitty stumbled into view, dressed in a horribly disheveled suit. Her hair was free from its usual small ponytail, dark strands sticking to her beardless face slick with sweat, her eyes tired and unfocused. "Finch, get out of here. Run," she wheezed with a tight fist clutched to her heaving chest. "I'm . . . about to . . . blackout." As soon as the words were said, Kitty's eyes rolled upwards and her body slackened. Finch tried to break her fall, but he failed to shoot out of his chair fast enough, and her head smacked against the edge of his desk on the way down.

" _Natasha?_ " Finch exclaimed, wincing slightly as he kneeled beside her unresponsive body. She wore no scarf, no sunglasses, no wig. It was incredibly rare that Kitty dared to walk around without a sufficient disguise masking her true features, so seeing her face completely bare was more than a little jarring.

"Natasha?" he tried again, supporting her head against the crook of his arm. A tiny cut on the side of her face dotted with blood from where she'd hit the corner of the table, and he absentmindedly wiped at it with his shirtsleeve. Pistachio flapped over and landed on Kitty's chest, cooing agitatedly as Beyoncé waddled over to greet her mother.

Finch's first guess was Natasha was drunk, but there were absolutely no traces of an alcoholic scent on her breath or skin. Lifting up one of her eyelids, Finch noted the pupil was nothing more than a pinpoint, a side affect of opiate class drugs—hard sedatives. He fumbled in his pocket for his cellphone to contact Mr. Reese.

"I wouldn't do that."

Finch inhaled sharply, frozen in place at the sound of a familiar voice. "Miss Catmull?" he asked at the shadowy figure standing at the end of the hallway.

"Not exactly." Root stepped out into a ray of sunlight, taking in the sight of the man currently cradling the body of the woman she'd sworn to protect. Root paused to concentrate on Mildred's instructions, emitting a soft hum after receiving her orders.

Finch wished Natasha would wake up. He was useless with violence, and he doubted he'd be able to protect either one of them from the woman standing a few feet away—a woman who turned out to be the perpetrator after all. "Who are you?"

"Who I am is not important, Harold. But if you must call me something, you can call me Root. It's wonderful to finally meet you in person." Although the smile she gave was meant to be polite, it was anything but comforting to Finch. His expression hardened as the news of her identity sank in. "I'm afraid this is where you'll have to part ways with your little sex kitten," Root continued. "Kitty and I are going on a road trip, and she's already wasted enough of my time."

"No," Finch countered evenly. "You're not taking her anywhere."

Mildred had already prepared Root for the most likely scenario, but seeing Finch in action was more admirable than she anticipated. Despite the pain it must have caused him, he leaned forward to pull Natasha into his lap, both arms crossed over her unconscious body in a protective harness.

"That's not up to you to decide," Root crooned, smiling at Finch's expression. It was obvious the man was terrified, but for all her efforts, Root couldn't seem to elicit an expression from him. As she neared his desk, he remained blank-faced and inert, refusing to give her the satisfaction of seeing how truly afraid he was. "But if you're going to be difficult about it, I _do_ need help getting her into my car. If you wouldn't mind doing the heavy lifting, I'd be much obliged."

Root lowered the handgun and grabbed Finch's cellphone and Bluetooth, smashing both devices under her heeled boot. When she motioned for Finch to follow her towards the hallway leading downstairs to the exit, he waited until she had completely turned away before reaching for Pistachio and hastily tucking the pigeon in his inner-breast pocket.

* * *

It was not so long ago that Harold found himself in this exact same situation. Natasha lay unconscious next to him in the backseat of a car as all three passengers zoomed down the street towards an unforeseen future. Finch buckled Kitty in her seat, but any slight movement made her limp body flop, so he reached an arm around her shoulders and held her securely to his side.

"Isn't the weather extraordinary this time of year?"

The mere sound of Root's voice made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. Finch didn't know much about this woman's identity, but she was a capable hacker and assassin, that much he knew for certain.

"You can talk, Harold. I don't bite."

"I have nothing to say to you."

Root glanced at him in the rearview mirror and grinned. "You haven't even asked me where we're going."

"Where are we going?"

"Oh, Harold," Root sighed loftily, "I wouldn't tell you even if I knew. That's the fun part of a roadtrip. Getting lost."

For the third time since they'd set off from the library, Root pulled over to the shoulder, under the protective canopy of a bridge, and exited the car. Although Finch couldn't see what she was doing, from the noise coming from near the trunk, he guessed she was changing the car plates and wondered why. Changing car plates three times before they had even crossed city lines was bizarrely vigilant, even by his standards.

In the brief moments of silence that followed Root's absence, Finch pondered his options. He couldn't very well open his door and sprint away into the city. And besides, even if he was physically capable of such a feat, the entire reason he was being held hostage in this car in the first place was because he refused to let Root kidnap Natasha. If the woman currently sagged against him was conscious, they might have stood a fighting chance at escaping.

A few minutes later, Root slid back into the driver's seat. "How are you doing back there, Harry?" she purred, turning around in her seat to stare at him. "Need a bottle yet?"

Finch stared straight ahead, not bothering to answer.

"Just thought I'd ask."

As they neared city limits, Root began to wonder if Finch was ever going to speak. Mildred instructed her not to turn on the radio, so the only sound came from the engine revving any time she sped up.

Without warning, Finch asked, "What is your name?"

"I told you Harold, call me Root—"

"No," Finch interrupted, "your real name."

Root waited for instructions, but Mildred remained silent. "Samantha," she answered.

"Were you born dishonest," Finch quipped, "or is it a trait you acquired in adulthood?"

"My name _is_ Samantha. It's just not Samantha _Catmull_. The secret to a good lie is an infusion of truth. You of all people should know that, Haro—" Root paused halfway through his name, perking up in alarm. Finch had heard the noise as well.

It was the click of a seatbelt unfastening.

"Natasha," their captor warned sharply, sounding panicked, " _don't even think about it!_ "

Root swore and slammed hard on the breaks just as Kitty yanked the lock up and flung herself out of the moving car. Landing on the pavement with a grunt, Kitty rolled to a stop before leaping up and sprinting away from the vehicle.

Still strapped in the backseat, Finch watched in horror as Root pulled a dart gun out of the glove box and pursued. It wasn't long before Root returned, huffing and puffing, with Natasha in her arms.

Finch was confused to find Root laughing quietly. "I was given fair warning," she mused, "but I must admit you're turning out to be quite the handful, little Kitty. Sorry, Harry," Root apologized. With a definitive _click_ Finch's right wrist was handcuffed to Natasha's bloodied left. "I don't want to end up with damaged goods, and she's already ripped up her nice suit. Take good care of her, please?"

* * *

 _Asheville, North Carolina_

"Hope you kiddos like cold cereal," said Root. "Looks like we won't be dining five star anytime soon."

Finch sat stiffly on the edge of the filthy motel bed, watching intently as Root padded across the room and opened the mini fridge. Kitty lay on the bed beside him, still unconscious and handcuffed to his wrist.

Root made a sound of disgust and slammed the fridge closed. "I'm going to go get some food that won't kill us. You two be good. And don't get any ideas, Harry. The phones have already been disconnected, and I'm always watching."

As soon as the hotel door closed behind her, Finch turned to Kitty, expecting her to leap up and suggest a plan of escape, but this time she remained comatose. If he had a bobby pin, or a nail file, or a metal hanger, he could attempt to pick the lock and free them both, but he had none of those items. As long as he was attached to Natasha, he couldn't search the room for them, either.

Gasping deeply, Kitty sprang up, awake at last.

Everything she screamed was in either German or Russian and was completely lost to Finch. From her tone alone, he gathered her words were anything but pleasant. Kitty's violent thrashing was beginning to hurt his wrist, so Finch reached out and placed his hands on either side of her face.

He hoped this would force her to realize it was him and relax at the sight of a familiar face. Instead, Kitty lashed out and wrapped her long fingers tightly around his throat.

Finch was surprised to discover the most frightening aspect of being choked to death was not actually the fingers cutting off air supply to his brain, but, rather, the wild look of insanity in the eyes of the woman choking him. There was no remorse in her murderous expression, only a wide-eyed determination to further tighten her hold on his esophagus, muttering furiously in a language he could not understand.

Tumbling backwards off the bed onto the hard-carpeted floor, Finch reached up in a futile attempt to pry himself free of her chokehold. Unable to suck up enough air to persuade her to stop, Finch gasped just enough to cough out, "Kitty."

" _Who are you?"_

Reaching down to unfasten his vest, Finch released Pistachio. The bird took flight, grateful for the long-awaited freedom, and flapped madly around the room. Satisfied with the exercise, the pigeon descended and landed on Kitty's shoulder. Startled, she released her hold on Finch.

Finch coughed roughly, wheezing as best he could to return oxygen flow to his body. In-between inhales, he repeated his name until Kitty's expression softened, and she reached out to feel his face.

"Harold?" she questioned, sounding both terrified and relieved as she caressed his facial features. "Harold?"

Finch felt like he had just coughed up a lung. "Yes," he responded as best he could, "it's me."

"I'm so sorry," Kitty apologized, her eyes darting around randomly. "I . . . Finch, I can't see anything."

* * *

"How did you know she would stop?" Root asked from her spot near the motel window. She'd watched the fight with increasing interest, especially when Mildred forbad her to intervene.

 _PROBABILITY_

Root's eyebrows rose. "You guessed?"

 _NOTHING IS EVER A CERTAINTY_

"I'll keep that in mind." Root watched as the two figures on the floor engaged in a heated debate. "It looks like Harry had the foresight to bring the flying rat with him. Would you like me to go back inside?"

 _NOT YET_

 _GIVE THEM MORE TIME_

* * *

"Listen to me," Kitty stately matter-of-factly. "I'm going to break the bones in my hand and slip out of these cuffs. Once we're separated, I want you to run. I'll stay here and make sure she doesn't follow."

Finch held fast to her cold fingers, prohibiting Kitty from attempting to crush her bones. "You're a terrible judge of character, Miss Krause, if you think I'm about to abandon you to the depraved whims of that insane woman."

"We don't have time for this." Kitty—temporarily blinded by a special serum Root added to the sedative mixture—groped around until she found Harold's shoulders and dug into them with her fingernails. "You have no idea who these people are. When I moved to New York, I memorized safe spaces. Dead zones in the city where there were no surveillance cameras. She stopped in those dead zones to change the car plates." Kitty's voice grew shrill as her panic surmounted. If Root had stopped to change her car plates so frequently, she must have known about Mildred, the Machine, or both. "There's only one group of people who would know to do that. _My old employers_."

Tugging Kitty towards the countertop, Finch picked up a pen and one of the free hotel tablets of paper and hastily penned a note to Reese. "Can you not tell me this story while we run?"

" _You're not listening, Harold!_ The company I used to work for . . . they don't believe people are inherently good—inherently competent—so they've been searching for something better, more efficient. They want the world run by perfectly rational beings. They want the entire world run by your government's Machine. You have to get out of here and make sure they never get their hands on it."

"That's not how the Machine works."

"No offense," Kitty sneered, "but I happen to know more about the Machine than you do."

Finch finished tying the note to Pistachio's leg and huffed, "I doubt that very much."

"Tapping into the city's camera feeds when you want to be a hero doesn't make you an expert on Artificial Intelligence."

"Yes, but programming one does."

"Bullshit, you did. And I'm secretly the Queen of England."

They were rapidly running out of time, and Harold had no way of knowing when their next opportunity to flee would present itself. "Natasha," Finch countered, growing impatient, "I'm not leaving this room without you, so I'd be very much obliged if you'd speed this along."

"Please, just go." Kitty wanted to slap him, but her hands were trembling too much. "If you don't leave, they'll kill us both."

"Then unless you come with me, we won't have much longer to live."

Natasha fell silent. She was equal parts furious and genuinely confused at Finch's refusal to abandon her. It was simply due to his ignorance of the situation, she decided, and raised her eyes up to stare blankly in his general direction. "You stupid man."

* * *

 _LET THEM GO_

Root crouched behind a parked car as Finch and Natasha hurried by in the heavy darkness, headed for the long dirt road leading back into town. As they passed by her hiding place, she heard their almost inaudible whispers.

"Shouldn't we alert the front desk?" As the older man desperately struggled to limp beside the longer-legged woman, Root pouted her bottom lip in pity. "Ask to use their phone?"

"We talk to no one," Kitty hissed. "These people will slaughter everyone we have contact with. We talk to motel staff, they're dead. You call Reese or Fusco or anyone else, they're dead."

"I suppose it's all up to Pistachio now." Finch tossed the bird high in the air, and Pistachio took flight, headed back to New York. It had been a long time since Finch had been forced to travel on foot at such a speed, and he was more than a little winded. "What's . . . your plan . . . exactly?"

Kitty turned to shoot him an annoyed expression, as if the answer were obvious. "We disappear. _Oh shit,_ " she swore after walking right into the trunk of a car. "Finch, a little guidance would be nice. I can't see, remember? We're lucky I didn't set the car alarm off."

Root remained crouched in her hiding place—drenched in the cover of night—as she watched Harold and Natasha make their way towards the thick forest surrounding the motel. Hand in hand, the two disappeared into the tree line, completely out of sight. "This is all rather fascinating. Do you still have eyes on them?"

 _NO_

"Oh, goodie." Smiling gleefully, Root stood and walked back to her car. In the trunk, hidden under a duffle bag full of weapons, was a pair of the worlds most expensive night vision goggles. "I've _always_ wanted to use one of these."

* * *

North Carolina was at no loss for trees. Tall pines and dogwoods grew close together, providing plenty of coverage and claustrophobia. The air was thick with shrill night bugs and the occasional owl hoot.

"Miss Krause," Harold wheezed, "I need to stop."

"We can't stop."

"Please, I can't breathe."

Kitty slowed her extreme pace until they were both at a standstill. Finch doubled over beside her, hacking so hard the bugs in the surrounding bushes silenced their songs. "We're far enough out," Kitty speculated, panting with equal fervor. "Is there any foliage we can hide in till morning?"

Finch led her to a large patch of bushes, shrouded in the overhanging branches of an elm. It was uncomfortable to lie down on the hard earth, but Finch feared the worst pain was yet to come with the early morning sun.

Finch waited until they were situated under the brush before unleashing his frustration. "Now would be an opportune time to tell me what the hell is going on."

"I already told you what's going on," Kitty snapped.

"Don't direct your hostility at _me_ , Miss Krause. _I'm_ not the one who led that woman to the library."

"Thank you for holding my common sense in such high regard." Kitty shifted until she was comfortable. "I didn't _lead_ her to the library. She already knew about it. All of it. The Machine, the library, all of it."

"And how do you know she's one of the people you're running from?"

"Because she knew my name," Kitty answered lowly. "My real, full name. This is all so _fucked._ "

Normally, Finch would bristle at the word, but considering their current circumstances, he couldn't help but agree. "What do we do now?"

"Sleep until I can see again."

"Do you think your vision will return by morning?"

"Don't talk to me."

"Pardon?" Finch asked, confused at her sharp tone.

Kitty was quiet for a long time. "I never asked you to save me," she replied quietly. "All I ever wanted was for you to take care of Pistachio. If you didn't have such a damn God-Complex, you'd already be on your way back to New York to move your shit to a safer location—" Kitty continued to rant, but Finch had no way to translate her angry words.

Harold had managed to keep his glasses secure on his face, but the night was so dark, they didn't help much. He was nearly as blind as Natasha. "These people you're running from . . . tell me about them."

"Decima." Kitty shifted, making sure not to further chafe Harold's wrist. "It's a technology company based out of Shanghai. Well, they _were_ based out of Shanghai."

"What do they want with you?"

"I'm an ex-employee. I sort of . . . blew up their base of operations when I quit."

"I see."

"Dummkopf." Kitty sighed, still angry with his previous refusal to escape on his own. "If I ever tell you to run again, don't ask questions. I don't care if your spine ends up snapping in half. Haul ass out of there."

"I've been living on borrowed time for a great many years. I'm not afraid to die."

"They won't kill _you_ ," Kitty practically spat. "They'll kill your mailman and his wife. And the woman you spoke to one time at a grocery store. And the kid you used to sit next to in the 2nd grade. And then they'll hunt down your cousins and aunts and uncles that you've never even met, and the next thing you know they're burning down the village you grew up in and everyone you've ever had contact with is dead _and it's all your fucking fault!"_

Pain, turmoil, and grief rolled off her body in angry waves. Finch knew just by looking at her that he couldn't begin to understand the events that led up to her current state. Part of him wished to believe that her stories were nothing but delusions played out in the twisted confines of her mind, but that didn't account for her sister's murder, for Bonnie's near assassination, or for the abundance of tattoos marking every inch of her back. Just because she was paranoid didn't mean there wasn't actually someone hunting her.

"Harold?" Kitty whispered up at the sky.

"I'm listening."

"I've only ever had two friends my entire life. You met Dr. Boer. The other was a leading scientist for the Siberian Volki. His name was Leonard. Close friends with my father. He looked out for me. Taught me about music and Old English. Used to let me sit next to his desk and translate _Beowulf_ in the late hours of the night."

Kitty paused, and Finch waited patiently for her to continue, relieved that she was confiding in him and releasing some of her agony.

"When Decima came for me," she continued, "Leo got me out. Guided me into the forest, away from the labs. It was so cold," Kitty whispered. "The coldest part of the year in Siberia. I knew we would die. My parka wasn't nearly enough to keep me warm throughout the night. And it _wasn't_ enough. Leo shrugged me into his own parka after I fell asleep, and he wrapped his arms around me during the blizzard to shield me with what little body heat he had left. When I woke up in the morning, he was so stiff, I had to break his arms to get him off of me."

Finch knew Kitty was a habitual liar, but when her fingers trembled at the memory, and he caught the shiny glimpse of a tear slide down her face, he believed this story. All at once, he found himself, once again, with the strong urge to comfort her.

"I don't like people, Finch. They're predictable, and dirty, and loud. But I did like Leo. And I do like you." Kitty turned her head to stare blankly in his direction. "I'll never let anyone hurt you, Harold Finch."

There was something about the way she'd said it that made Finch tense. Maybe it was her tone, or the deadpan way in which she recited the words. Maybe it was the solemn look in her unfocused eyes that made him worry that she was serious. For whatever reason, Finch had an increasing fear that Kitty fully intended to do whatever it took to keep him safe, despite the casualties it may leave in her trail. Had she not proven beyond capable of mass destruction already? "Don't make promises you can't keep, Natasha."

"I don't."

"I would prefer if you focused on keeping yourself safe," he answered uncomfortably. "I'm more than capable of looking after myself."

"Well, that's too bad."

"How so?"

"Because, you no longer have a choice." Kitty yawned, made herself comfortable against his side, and finally closed her eyes to rest. "I've already decided to keep you."

After much internal debate, Finch decided not to ask.


	17. You're a Wizard, Harry

**The thought of Reese taking care of little Beyoncé without being asked to makes me happier than any amount of ice cream ever could.**

* * *

"She has no idea how powerful you really are." Root watched Finch and Kitty meander aimlessly in the early hours of morning. Kitty had allowed them precisely one hour of rest before shooting awake and practically dragging Harold alongside her. Hidden away in the darkness, Root adjusted her night vision goggles to make sure she kept the two in sight. "Why haven't you told her your true capabilities?"

 _I DO NOT WANT NATASHA TO FEAR ME_

"You think she would?"

 _I DO NOT WANT TO RISK IT_

"Well, _I'm_ not afraid of you," Root admitted, smiling.

 _I KNOW_

 _THAT'S WHY YOU'RE HERE_

* * *

Finch wasn't surprised in the slightest.

Before he'd even had the chance to fully rouse himself from sleep, pinpricks shot what felt like an endless jellyfish sting up his spine and into his skull. His entire body pulsed with pain, making the task of sitting up to survey his surroundings near impossible. He looked over at the woman seated beside him and asked, "What are you doing?"

Kitty sat hunched over, her bra in her hands, madly tugging at the garment with her teeth. Once the stitching loosened enough for her liking, she ripped the entire garment apart, exposing the wires inside.

"Don't tell me your _bra_ is an explosive, too."

"No, Harold, that would be stupid," Kitty dismissed. "My bra is a satellite receiver."

"Nothing should surprise me anymore," Harold mumbled quietly to himself, "and yet, here we are."

A few mechanical sparks and foreign swear words later, Kitty fell silent again. Birds sang morning songs throughout the woods, but all Finch could focus on was the rhythmic tapping coming from Kitty's device.

"What are you doing?"

"Hopefully hacking into Google Earth," Kitty answered. "I have a friend that can help us, but only if I send this transmission correctly."

"I assume you've regained your vision? I'd love to get out of these cuffs."

"Enough of it to function." After sending the last of her message, Kitty sighed at the mess of wires in her hands. "Well, that's great. Another bra gone. I really liked this one, too." Using one of the exposed underwires, Kitty fiddled with the lock until the cuffs clicked open. "We need to keep moving."

Natasha held out a hand to help him up, but Finch could do hardly anything more than lift his arm a few inches off the ground. Sleeping on hard, packed earth had wreaked havoc on his muscles, and now he was paying the consequences. "Give me a moment."

Narrowing her eyes slightly, Kitty scrutinized his stillness. "The offer of a massage is still on the table."

"Duly noted, but no thank you."

Kitty suddenly froze at the echoing of a man's voice. Eyes wide and wildly searching the incredibly blurry mass of trees, Finch noted that Kitty had never looked quite so cat-like as she did now—blinded and relying almost solely on sound.

"I hear them! They hide in the brush, but not for long, my brothers!"

Biting back pain, Finch forced himself to his feet. He had no intention of charging towards the rapidly approaching man, but Kitty held out an arm to keep him behind her anyway. Kneeling down to grope the forest floor, Kitty brandished a long, hefty branch in front of her like a javelin just as a small group of men burst through the trees.

Swinging the branch up and around in a warning arc, Kitty sank down into a fighting stance in front of Finch.

"See how she defends him!" A man dressed top to bottom in a swashbuckler's garb pointed at Kitty. "These damn wizards have infested our lands for years. It is time to put an end to their reign of terror. Down with the Empire of Sorcery!"

The man nearest Kitty received the brunt of her wrath to the face and stomach. Dropping to his knees, he crawled away to his group shouting, "Stop! I concede! Guys, she just hit me with an actual wooden staff. Agh! I'm bleeding! I thought we'd all agreed on nothing harder than Nerf foam?"

Kitty snarled, swinging the branch with a loud _whoosh._

Finch immediately took notice of the men's attire, foam weaponry, and thoroughly confused expressions and recognized what was happening. Placing a hand on Natasha's shoulder, he whispered, "Don't hit them again."

"Uhhh," one of the men asked, "excuse me, but who are you guys? I don't remember meeting you at registration."

* * *

Kitty listened patiently as Scott—leader of this particular LARP group—explained exactly what it was they do. After figuring out Kitty and Finch were not rival members of the "wizard sect" of their campaign, the group of "rebel pirates" agreed to take them safely through the forest back to the main road.

"Let me get this straight," said Kitty. "You're a group of fully grown men who dress up and wander around the forest playing make-believe with foam weapons and imaginary names?"

"There's more to it than that," one of the men chimed in, looking chagrined. "It's about the art of storytelling. I'm not judging you two for going hiking in business suits."

Finch shot Kitty a frown, but her vision was still too blurry to have seen it. "Don't be rude."

"I'm not being rude," she snapped. "I'm just asking questions. I've never even heard of something like this before. I happen to be a great lover of 7th century literature. Can any of you recite the tale of Beowulf?"

"No," they answered collectively.

"Storytelling, my ass," she whispered under her breath. "You guys ever fight with real weapons? Nothing like an authentic sword and shield at your side."

"No," one of the men answered. "We don't fight with actual weapons. I think that would technically be illegal."

"You guys know any Germanic languages?" Kitty asked, looking much less enthusiastic. "You can't pretend to be Medieval and not speak a Germanic language."

A few of the men exchanged curious glances. "We only do this as a hobby. You know, for fun? It's all about the story we create, and not so much about actual history."

"I don't see how you could have fun without staying true to historical authenticity." Kitty—no longer interested—remained silent until the leader announced their arrival at the main road.

"You guys need a ride anywhere? Where'd you park?"

"Oh, no thank you," said Finch. Kitty's previous warning about leaving a trail of dead civilians haunted him, and he desired nothing more than to distance Kitty and himself from this group of innocents. "We can find our car from here."

Just before the men had completely retreated into the trees out of sight, Kitty turned in their direction and shouted, "And there's no such thing as _wizards,_ you assholes!"

* * *

"This is a '59 Impala."

Kitty squinted at the car, but all that was visible for her at the moment was the hideous pink paint job. "I wish I knew what you were talking about." Kitty tugged at the door handle, smiling when it opened without a fight. "That makes things considerably easier."

"We can't just _take_ their car."

"Unless you want to walk across state lines, I suggest you get in. We've lingered here too long as it is. It's not like they don't have another mode of transportation. There were at least eleven men in that group. One of them has to have brought another car."

"Miss Krause," Harold attempted to reason, "this is a bright pink 1959 Impala. We will be, quite literally, a sore thumb on the road."

"Do you see another car nearby?" Kitty asked, swinging her arms around. "Get in, Finch. This model is old enough not to have GPS, so that's one less thing to worry about. I can't see well enough not to get us killed on the road, so you'll have to drive."

Kitty settled into the leather passenger seat. In truth, she had no idea how to drive a car. Her skills included motorcycles, small sea vessels, helicopters, and airliners. Whether by a series of unfortunate accidents or a carefully crafted plan from her numerous employers, Kitty had never learned how to drive a car. In the cases of emergencies, Mildred always took the wheel for her. Driving seemed simple enough, but paired with her current blindness, she decided to leave it up to Finch.

Just as she was about to question their ability to drive without car keys, the engine roared to life.

"Did you just hotwire this car all on your own?" Kitty's eyebrows rose with fascination. "Damn. Just when I thought you couldn't get any sexier."

* * *

Finch kept his eyes on the road, but he'd noticed Kitty's silent concentration on the strange contraption once hidden in her bra. Her anticipation of correspondence with the friend she mentioned earlier had completely consumed her attention for over an hour.

"What are you waiting for?"

"A sign," Kitty answered, staring intently at the wires gathered in her lap.

They were headed to Mississippi per Natasha's request. Finch inquired about what to do with Mr. Reese and the two detectives, to which she simply stated, "They'll be fine as long as we stay away from them."

"I assume I'm supposed to take you on your word?"

"I have fallback plans lined up for the people we left behind, Finch," she grumbled irritably. "Nothing's going to happen to them. It's _us_ who's royally fucked—uh," she amended mid-swear, "royally, uh . . . out of luck."

"What about your employees at the club?"

Without missing a beat, Kitty finally averted her still-blurry eyes from the wires in her lap and looked over at Finch. "If anyone tries to hurt my girls, I'll personally hunt them down, cut out their tongue, and shove it so far up their ass it'll end up lodged back in their mouth where it belongs."

Finch didn't ask any more questions.

* * *

 _Mississippi_

The small-town humid air was ripe with mildew and a sense of poverty. After switching cars four times, it took nearly a day of driving before Kitty permitted them to stop. By now, her vision had almost entirely reappeared, and she sat disapprovingly at the edge of a questionable motel mattress, her nose scrunched in distaste as she finished making another Molotov Cocktail. "I've definitely slept on worse," she remarked, setting the finished flammable bottle down on the carpet next to the bed, "but that doesn't really make it better."

Finch checked the window one final time before taking a hesitant seat at the edge of a stained chair across the room, far away from Kitty's ever-increasing pile of homemade weapons. By now he'd been awake for almost two whole days. "Is there an end goal?"

"I'll know as soon as I get a message." Halfway through fastening a strip of fabric in the bottle to keep the alcohol trapped inside, Kitty twitched violently, blinked as if momentarily confused, and then continued constructing the weapon.

"Are you alright?"

"Yes," she confirmed, "that happens sometimes. Go to sleep, Harold."

Finch rubbed at his eyes. "I'll take the first shift. I can't sleep."

"And you think _I_ can?" Kitty glanced up, amused. "Favorite movie."

"Pardon?"

"What's your favorite movie?"

It was such an odd question at a time like this, paired with the stark contrast in the previous topic of conversation. Finch paused to think. "Annie Hall. You?"

"Well, considering the only movies I've ever seen are the Star Wars ones you showed me, I'll have to say Empire Strikes Back."

"You'd never seen a movie before that?"

"The opportunity never presented itself. My father always had something important for me to do in the labs." Kitty twitched again—this time her eyes drooping, heavy with sleep.

Even from across the room, Finch could see the dark, puffy bags under her bloodshot eyes and wondered if his own face gave away his exhaustion. "Miss Krause, I really do think you should rest. Miss Krause. Natasha. Natasha?"

"I wasn't sleeping," she blurted, jerking awake.

"Miss Krause, we'll never stand a chance against the people chasing us if we're both too lethargic to move. Please, get some sleep. I'll keep watch."

Natasha's head rolled limply on her neck as she tried to give a nod of consent. Grabbing a fistful of blankets, Kitty slunk off the bed and slowly trailed across the room at a sloth's pace, plopping down on the floor next to Finch. "Here," she said, placing the mess of wires in his lap, "wake me up if this starts to blink." To his great displeasure, Kitty rested her head on top of his leg, mumbling.

"You'll have to repeat yourself," said Finch.

Natasha's voice was nothing more than a muttered whisper against his slacks. "I said—" she groped around for his hand, pulling it up to rest against the top of her head, "pet."

Finch refrained from pulling his hand away, but his expression revealed his intense confusion. "What?"

Kitty guided his hand back and forth, mimicking a stroking motion before mumbling something else. All Finch could decipher from this message was "Mildred."

Harold immediately thought back to the morning he'd first discovered Natasha's tattoos. Before Mr. Boer suffered a stroke, before Mr. Reese brought Bonnie to the estate for protection, the safehouse had been a quiet and tranquil retreat. But despite the serenity of the place, he distinctly remembered Kitty's fretful sleep on the floor in front of the couch. Tossing and turning, trapped in some kind of otherworld, her fidgeting subsided only after he'd mustered the courage to do exactly what she was requesting of him now.

It was no secret that Kitty was a never-ending supply of grievous annoyance for Finch, but above the annoyance—above the fear and doubt and dozens of other emotions she stirred inside him—was pity. He felt sorry for her. More sorry than he had felt for another human being in his entire life.

It was due to this pity that he succumbed to her request.

Her dark hair was soft as he ran his fingertips from the scalp to the ends of her short strands. Finch wondered as he reached the ends that curled under her ear if she would get another haircut soon to better blend in with her Naum persona. She had the right facial structure to pull it off. It was remarkable, really, how she could change so effortlessly from a beautiful woman with long hair to a strikingly handsome young man with no more than a haircut and a handful of fake facial trimmings.

It was comical how quickly Kitty fell asleep after he began. Almost the second he brushed a hand over her head, petting her like a lap cat, her entire body limply slumped against him. The only thing keeping Finch from laughing was a complete lack of energy. Anyone else might have suspected Kitty of faking, but Harold knew better. Her lips always parted slightly when she was truly asleep.

Again and again he trailed his fingers gently through her hair, mapping out the shape of her scull, grateful that one of them was getting rest. It brought him peace to watch her troubled expression dissolve into the blankness of serene sleep.

It never occurred to him that he had fulfilled his duties and could stop.

* * *

 _Arkansas_

Another 24 hours had come and gone without any word from Mildred, and Natasha wasn't sure whether she was more concerned than pissed off. So far, the only positive thing that had come from all this was that they had time to trade off security shifts until they'd both somewhat recovered from sleep deprivation.

Fiddling with bits of metal, she glanced up at Finch—who had succumbed to hunger—and asked, "What's your favorite book?"

"Kafka's _The Trial,_ " Finch answered without missing a beat. He took another bite of his apple. "You mentioned yesterday you enjoy 7th century works. I assume _Beowulf_ is at the top of your list _._ "

"Actually, my favorite has always been _Sir Gawain and the Green Knight_ , but I'll read any traditional Germanic tale. Their barbarous pagan theology is a little easier for me to understand than most modern works."

"Unfortunately," Finch confessed, "I've only read that once . . . and the translation was horrible."

"You can read one of my translations, if you want. I've translated the original Old English sixteen times so far, and it still surprises me."

"Sixteen times?"

Kitty looked up to find his eyebrows raised in surprise. "I always try and translate works into German," she explained. "It was the first language Mama taught me. It doesn't necessarily make it _easier_ to understand, it just . . . I don't know how to explain it. I just like the way it sounds." Giving the metal invention in her hands a crank, she paused. "I don't miss a lot of things about home, but I do miss the language."

Finch took another hungry bite of the apple. "Well, if we make it out of this alive, you'll have to let me read your transcriptions."

"Favorite genre of music."

Finch had a high regard for opera, but decided to answer another favorite instead. "I'm rather fond of the Big Band era."

"You're kidding," Kitty exclaimed, averting her attention from some sort of spring-wire device she was building. "I _love_ Big Band."

Kitty's fervent enthusiasm surprised Finch. He had fully expected her to admit a passion for Rap or Pop music—the likes of which she never ceased to blast when they were in a car together.

"Papa had a whole collection of Glenn Millar and Benny Goodman records down in the bunker," Kitty continued. "I used to listen to them on his gramophone while I practiced my yoga routine. Favorite song?"

"Oh," Finch dismissed, "I don't think I could boil it down to one."

"Try."

It took Harold a moment to notice he had matched her excited smile. Natasha was so rarely interested in anything that it was difficult not to be just as enthusiastic when she did unearth something she enjoyed. " _Opus No. 1_ ," he finally answered. "That's a good one to dance to. You?"

" _If I Didn't Care_ by The Ink Spots. Also good for dancing, albeit much slower. Favorite art piece?"

Finch sat up straighter, eyeing her with an air of teasing mistrust. "Miss Krause, if this is your way of trying to divulge my every secret, I'm afraid it won't work."

"Harold, if I wanted to know your every secret, I'd just—" A blinking light stuttered to life within the coiled wires beside Kitty. She immediately dropped the metal device she was working on and scrambled to find the source of the blinking.

Finch limped over to the bed to see what was happening. A series of flashes were coming from an incredibly small bulb. Each flash varied in a specific pattern—some quick, some lingering. "Morse Code," Finch muttered under his breath. One by one, the flashes spelled out letters until the entire message had been sent.

R-O-O-T-I-S-N-O-T-D-E-C-I-M-A

Finch glanced up to engage Kitty's response, but she looked even more perplexed than he did. Root—the woman they had known as Samantha Catmull only two days ago—was allegedly not affiliated with the people Natasha so desperately wanted to avoid. _Did this mean they were only running from a lone crazy woman?_ A slight sense of relief eased into Harold's tired body. Surely one unstable woman was better than an entire corporation.

Kitty was the first to break the silence. "That doesn't make any sense."

"Is it possible your source is wrong?"

"My source is never wrong," Kitty countered defensively. "Which is why this doesn't make sense. She knew too much. She had to have been . . . this doesn't make any sense."

A forceful pounding at the hotel door sent Kitty shooting six feet up in the air and off the bed.

* * *

Detective Carter was sweaty, exhausted, and hungry.

After the disappearance of his boss, John showed up at the precinct with a crazy road trip all planned out. Following the footsteps of the woman who took Finch had led them to Texas, where a whole mess of small town scandals had quickly boiled over and landed the resident librarian in jail. Together, John and Carter had managed to unearth Root's real name, but for all their solid detective work, there was still no sign of Finch—until John received the text message " _FOUND THEM"_ and a set of coordinates.

The two had promptly split up, John taking the first set of coordinates and Detective Carter speeding towards the second. She already had one hand on her gun before exiting her car and crunching over gravel on her way to room 15. Unsure if the woman was inside with Finch or not, Carter took no chances. Pounding hard against the wood, Carter shouted that she was police, and for her to be let in. The door swung open almost immediately.

"Detective Carter?" Finch stood in the doorway, light streaming behind him. It was difficult to see exactly who he was, but the second her eyes adjusted, Carter directed her weapon away from him.

"Are you alone?" she asked brusquely, ready, as always, to react quickly to the least expected scenario. Her time in the Armed Forces had trained her well in matters of chaos.

"No," Finch answered. " _No, no_ ," he quickly amended when Carter raised her weapon, "the woman who took us isn't here."

"Us?" Carter leaned to the side to better see past Finch. The room looked empty until a young woman sprang up from the other side of the bed, twisting around and smiling when she noticed the Detective.

"I must say," Kitty announced happily, "you are a sight for sore eyes."

Carter watched as the young woman from the wanted posters she'd been staring at for the past few months tossed a Molotov Cocktail onto the bed and crossed the room in a few long-legged strides.

"We've already met," Kitty explained, holding out a hand for Carter to shake, "but, to be fair, you thought I was a man so . . . nice to meet you. Again."

Instinctually, Carter raised her gun in warning to stop moving forward.

Kitty stopped, blinking tiredly into the barrel. "It's still nice to meet you."

FBI agents had stressed how dangerous this woman was every chance they got, but what worried Carter the most was all the information they would not—or could not—give her about the Mildred Krause case. "Finch," Carter demanded, "who is this?" In the middle of Finch's attempted explanation, Carter's cellphone rang. "John?" she hissed into the phone, her gun still drawn and pointed at Natasha.

Yawning, Kitty turned and walked back to the bed, picking up the abandoned bottle and pulling out the fabric strip she'd stuffed in the neck, freeing the vodka inside. "Please stop pointing that at me." Kitty took a long swig from the dismantled weapon and coughed. "I'm obligated not to hurt you, or John will kick my ass."

Clearly flustered, Carter engaged Reese and Finch in an intense series of questions, all of which never fully convinced her. Kitty tuned them out. It wasn't the first time she'd sat around while older adults squabbled over what to do with her. This had been a routine aspect of her life since she was a child. Kitty finished half the bottle of vodka before tuning back in. Carter was in the middle of listing off all of the reasons why she was obligated to slap handcuffs on Natasha and hand her over to the Feds.

Kitty's laugh started low and internal, slowly bursting outwards until it was genuinely mirthful. "You actually think you're the hero, don't you, Detective? Let me guess," she said sarcastically, "they told you I'm a danger to society. Oh, I know . . . they told you I'm _a_ _rouge Russian assassin._ That's my personal favorite. Just vague enough to get everyone riled up."

"You're a threat to national security, and I cannot let you leave this room. No," Carter warned loudly, "sit back down!"

"Or you'll do what? Shoot me?" Kitty shrugged. "Go ahead."

"Miss Krause," said Harold warily, "now is not the time—"

"Get on the ground," Carter ordered. "Now. With your hands behind your head."

Kitty didn't move a muscle. "You don't even know my name. You don't know anything about me."

"I know enough."

"You don't know why I'm here," Kitty countered. "Even your precious government doesn't know that. Would you like to know what brought me to the land where freedom rings? I'm sure by now you've heard all about my twin sister, Mildred. We were separated as children, and I was forced to stay in Russia while she made a life for herself in America. When I received intel that my sister was in danger, I risked everything to get myself here. You see," Kitty's voice—loud and stale and tinged with fatigue—rang through the humid room, "the only reason I stayed in Russia was because I was told that would keep her safe. That the work I was doing would protect her from bad people." Natasha paused, staring at the carpet in thought. "I realized she was no longer safe here, forged the necessary documents, and piloted an airliner departing from St. Petersburg. When I landed . . . when I finally reached my sister's home . . . your government had already murdered her in cold blood. I hadn't seen her for almost ten years."

Carter listened, never lowering her gun.

"I carried my sister 2,640 feet away from the house, counting every last step. I dug her grave with my bare hands. I put her in the ground," Kitty continued, looking up with a spike of anger, "which is more than your coward government did. Left her to rot in her own home. I thought you people had laws against that sort of injustice? So, Detective," she asked derisively, "am I a terrorist? Do I want to burn your people to the ground? Kill every last fucking one of you?" Something changed in her expression as she thought about the answer. "I used to," Kitty whispered. "But not anymore."

Kitty was too close for comfort now, but even after all of the horror stories she'd been told about this woman, Carter couldn't seem to pull the trigger. Killing was never easy for her, but killing an unarmed civilian who wasn't charging at you was impossible.

"If you want to shoot me," said Kitty, "go ahead. But I won't turn myself in. Your government is made up of cowards and liars. Murders and thieves. You are no more than a marionette, and you're blissfully unaware. You're more than willing to hand me over to your people, but you don't have the slightest idea what they'll do once I'm theirs. So either get out of my way," Kitty offered lowly, taking a step forward and severing the distance between her chest and the barrel of Carter's gun, "or end this."

Detective Carter had seen pain—true pain—before. She'd seen it in the eyes of mothers who lost their children in the blasts of war. She'd seen it in her own reflection anytime she thought back to her days as an interrogator. If there's one thing she'd learned from her deployment, it was that war was more complicated than anyone could possibly understand.

Carter could tell this young woman—not even fractionally as happy as the photo of her sister—had seen more than her fair share of war.

* * *

 _Brooklyn, New York_

"Why are you lying to me?" Kitty paced in front of the computer screen. "Who is Root? What's her real name? Where was she born? Where does she live?"

 _I DO NOT KNOW_

"YOU KNOW _EVERYTHING!_ " Kitty shrieked at the screen, face reddening with passion. "You're supposed to be better than me. But you're not. You're a liar. We're exactly the same."

 _SHE NO LONGER POSES A THREAT_

 _IF I TELL YOU WHERE SHE IS, YOU WILL KILL HER_

"Damn right I will."

 _YOU ARE ACTING IRRATIONAL_

"Did you just . . . are you kidding me, Mildred? Did you just _turn off your monitor?_ FINE! I'll figure out who she is on my own! I DON'T NEED YOU!" Grabbing a backpack full of weapons, Kitty stormed out of the apartment.

* * *

 _New York City_

"She's here Finch. Natasha, I mean. Not Samantha." Mr. Reese approached Kitty's seat at Finch's computer. Her head rested against his keyboard, one hand outstretched as if she had passed out while trying to work. Gun drawn, Reese made a thorough search of the library to make sure it was uninhabited. "All clear, Finch. You can come back."

"Are you sure?" Finch tugged Bear's leash to keep the dog beside him.

"Come back, Harold," John soothed, "Bear won't let anything happen to you." Reese returned to Kitty's slumbering body and reached to touch her shoulder. A hand shot out with lightning speed, gripping tightly to John's wrist to stop him. Eyes wide and tinged with redness, Kitty stared at him for a moment, but as soon as she realized who was touching her, her eyes flickered shut, and her head flopped back against the desk with a soft thud.

As John scooped the sleeping woman up into his arms, he was surprised to find she was almost the same weight as she was when they first met.

* * *

Natasha twitched awake at the sound of a bird chirping. She was in an unfamiliar barren room, thick with a sharp scent of spicy aftershave. Hardwood floors, a high vaulted ceiling, and a large bed—on which she currently lay—near a wall of windows. Kitty sat up, pushing aside the plush comforters she'd been tucked under, and looked around.

John was sitting stiffly in a chair next to the bed, Beyoncé chirping loudly in his cupped hands. "I believe this belongs to you." Seeing Natasha, Beyoncé leapt out of John's palm and waddled across the sheets into Kitty's embrace. "Found her wandering around the library," he explained. "Carter helped take care of her while we were out looking for you."

Kitty's wide smile waned. "I'm sorry about Carter. I heard she's quitting our team. Guilty conscience for letting me go, I guess."

Reese declined to comment.

"You hate me."

"I don't hate you," he refuted without any sort of passion. "I just find you irritating. Here, I made you soup."

Kitty eyed the steaming bowl with a partial grimace. "Uh . . . Reese, thanks, but I told you I wasn't interested in you like that."

"Thank God for small miracles," he mumbled. "Take it. Consider it a gift among friends."

Kitty lit up immensely at the word. "Friends?"

Reese sighed.

After slurping a spoonful of the Russian soup, Kitty stared down at the bowl, trying to catalogue the ingredients. She knew Reese had no way of knowing, but this happened to be her favorite dish. "You made this from scratch? I didn't know you could cook."

"Among other things."

Kitty narrowed her eyes. "Why are you being nice to me?"

"Harold told me I had to be."

"Where is he?"

"Working on our latest number."

"And," Kitty inquired, casting another glance around the room, "where, exactly, are we?"

"My apartment. I thought this would be a more comfortable place to talk."

"About?"

"There are people hunting me, same as you," Reese disclosed softly, "but I know exactly what they're capable of. I know nothing of Decima." He paused to stare at her, gaging her reaction to the name. "So, I need you to start talking. Here, I even brought a peace offering."

"Is this—?" Kitty cradled the bottle of imported beer. Everything about the label was familiar to her because it was the most popular beer in the pubs back home in Germany. "Where did you get this?"

"I have my ways."

Kitty eagerly popped the top and took a swig, relishing in the flavor. "Does Harold know you're giving me this?"

"I won't tell if you won't."

Finch's slightly annoyed tone came through John's Bluetooth, "Mr. Reese, I can still hear you—" but before he could finish the sentence, John had already reached up and tapped the phone off.

Finch sank down in his chair back at the library, mouth slightly agape in surprise and offense at being hung up on. Bear sensed his new master's distress and hurried over to lick his fingers. Finch tensed at the contact, pulling away and wiping dog saliva off his hand.

John had briefly introduced their latest member of the team before taking off and leaving Harold behind to watch over the panting pooch. Although the presence of a well-trained military canine was a small comfort—especially considering Root was still missing—it was an adjustment Harold wasn't completely comfortable with.

Realizing he was not needed at the moment, Bear saddled over to the dog bed Kitty frequently napped on. Digging his claws into the plush fabric, Bear relished the scents wafting from inside the stuffing. It wasn't long before he was ripping wisps of white cotton out.

Finch watched on in horror. "I really don't think you should do that," he warned, but it was useless. By the time he limped over to the corner of the room where Bear had dragged the bed to gnaw on, it remained no less than a sopping pile of shredded material. Wincing at the mess, Finch sighed and locked eyes with the animal, who was still panting happily as usual, blissfully unaware of his crime. "Miss Krause is not going to be happy about this."


	18. High School Musical 5: Murder Most Foul

_The Yellow Sea, 2009_

 _"Sir, there's something in the water."_

 _Captain Paik strode over to the side of the fishing ship and followed the direction of his crews' pointing fingers. Bobbing among the blocks of broken ice was a small form, possibly human. With the help of their largest fishing net, the crew managed to snare the body—and a large crate she was clutching—and pulled it aboard._

 _"It's a female, sir," one of them said. "European."_

 _The girl's body was whiter than Paik had ever seen before, her lips already a shade of blue from hypothermia. "Is she dead?" asked Captain Paik._

 _"No," the man said after listening for a heartbeat._

 _"Then bring her inside."_

* * *

 _It took hours of gradual warming in the cabin below deck before the frozen woman began to stir with signs of life. Captain Paik was unsure where she came from, or what she was doing this close to Korea, but he intended to find out. His only worry stemmed from his limited knowledge of the English language, but as soon as Kitty woke up, he was relieved to discover she spoke fluent Korean._

 _"Drink your tea," Captain Paik urged gently._

 _Kitty scrutinized his every move, unblinking, for several moments before declaring, "You're not Chinese."_

 _"No," he answered in surprise. "Were you expecting me to be?"_

 _"Where's my project?" she asked, pulling the blanket closer around her. "Tell me you rescued my project."_

 _"We pulled a crate from the ocean. I've kept it above deck."_

 _Kitty sipped at the scalding water he'd provided. Captain Paik had proven himself trustworthy in her book, so far. He'd saved her life, and he hadn't made any inappropriate advances. "We're docking on Korean shorelines, correct?"_

 _"Yes. We should arrive at port tomorrow." He watched her reaction with increasing amounts of curiosity. "Who do we need to contact on your behalf?"_

 _"No one," Kitty answered. "I need to leave as soon as we dock."_

 _"Why?"_

 _"Because you're nice, and I don't want you to die on my behalf." Kitty took another sip of her tea, slightly disappointed to find it significantly cooler than before. "Now, would you kindly show me where you've put my crate?"_

* * *

 _2012, New York City_

"Come down from there," said Reese. "He won't hurt you."

A head popped out from the very top shelf of the fiction section. "I don't believe your lies," Kitty retorted. "That disgusting animal wants to rip me open and disembowel me like he did my bed. I don't see why we need to keep that thing in the library."

"Root's still on the loose," Reese explained.

"I already told you she's not even in the country anymore!"

"Just in case she comes back," John countered, "I'd like to know Harold's safe if I'm not here."

Bear barked excitedly and attempted to scale the bookshelf Kitty had scrambled up in a mad dash to get away from the dog. Immediately recognizing her scent from the cushion he'd destroyed the night before, the library quickly filled with the clicking of his nails against the floor as he paced the length of the shelf, waiting for her to come down and play with him.

"Bear," Finch chastised, "leave her alone. And please try not to enjoy yourself so much, Mr. Reese. I see you smiling."

Only a sharp whistle was needed to avert Bear's attention back to his owner. The dog obediently hurried to John's side as he lifted a photo of a young girl off the glass board. "What's her story?"

"Freya Nabokov," Finch answered, typing away at his keyboard. "Fourteen years old and already a senior in high school with plans to attend NYU next spring. Lives alone with her father. Mother died of cancer three years ago. Aside from her strenuous studies, there's nothing out of the ordinary as far as I can tell. Miss Krause?" Finch called without turning around. "Come down from there, please. I'll need your full cooperation on this one."

* * *

 _Our Lady of Victoria Catholic Academy, New York City_

Eyes wide in alarm, the young man stuttered an apology. Kitty held him up off the ground—pinned against a row of lockers—with her forearm pressed hard against his throat.

"Touch me again," Kitty threatened, "and I'll castrate you like a choir boy."

The second his feet touched the ground, he bolted away into the small crowd of curious students who'd stopped to gawk. The Academy so rarely received transfer students this late in the year, so Kitty's appearance was especially noteworthy for the upperclassmen.

Kitty meticulously straightened her school uniform, struggling particularly with her tight shirt. It was a modest knit top that covered her completely, but the problem lied with her breasts, which quickly became the source of conversation for excited young boys and envious young women. Swiping her wool skirt straight, Kitty snapped, "You couldn't have ordered me a large, Harold? I completely understand if you have some kind of schoolgirl fetish, but we could have settled that in the privacy of the library. This uniform is absolutely ridiculous. I haven't even been on campus an hour and I've already been groped."

"What?" Harold's hushed response came over the Bluetooth. "I'm sorry, Miss Krause, but I have to go. We received a new number. Mr. Reese and I will be radio silent for an hour or so. Find Freya and stay near her. I'll get back to you as soon as I can."

"Great," Kitty muttered, looking around at bustling clusters of young adults. "Thanks for abandoning me in this hormonal nuthouse."

Freya Nabokov was an above-average student with no involvement in after-school activities, aside from spending one hour each day afterschool in the library. Nothing pointed to any signs of ill will from a second party, so Finch decided the easiest way to keep her safe—while hopefully gathering helpful intel—was to place Natasha in all of her classes.

 _"It would be best if you became friends with her. Try to be civil,"_ Harold had begged. " _You'll catch more flies with honey than with vinegar."_

Kitty responded with a long-winded rant about how she hates flies and wishes they were eradicated from the ecosystem, to which Finch sighed and told her get going before she missed the school bus.

Kitty glanced down at the printed schedule Finch had handed her this morning and strode across campus to the first class of the day.

* * *

 _Manhattan_

Reese and Harold had stumbled upon a plot to kill a prominent businessman on the operating table in order to cash in a lucrative stock exchange scam. While Finch remained inside the hospital to help the surgeon currently being blackmailed into killing her patient, Reese remained outside down the street at a park, keeping an eye on the doctor's wife.

Giving the surrounding area another once over, Reese reached up to answer a call. "You better not need my help, Natasha. I'm busy."

"Hey, daddy. I need a favor from a _parental unit._ "

Reese's brows knit in a rare moment of genuine confusion.

"I need you to sign a detention slip for me tonight," said Kitty. "All I did was correct the chemistry teacher, and he flipped out and caused a scene. It was totally not my fault—"

"That's nice, but I have things to do." Reaching up to tap his earpiece, Reese's finger hovered for a second longer before pushing the button. "And Natasha?"

"Yes, John?"

"Don't _ever_ call me daddy again."

* * *

 _Our Lady of Victoria Catholic Academy, New York City_

Freya smiled kindly at the woman scooping mashed potatoes onto her tray. "Hi, Joy."

"Hello, sweetheart," the elderly lunch lady replied. "You look especially adorable today. Are those new glasses?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Suits you fine, dear."

Blushing a deep crimson, Freya mumbled a thank you and carried her lunch tray to her usual spot in the corner of the cafeteria. Making friends had always been difficult, but ever since her father got the academy to approve for Freya to skip four grade levels, it was a social impossibility. " _It is for the best_ ," her father had said. " _Friends are distractions, Freya. You'll have time for friends when you graduate college and become a doctor."_

Mr. Nabokov emigrated from Russia to America with his wife when they were newlyweds. He'd worked like a slave to provide medical treatment for Mrs. Nabokov when she was diagnosed with cancer—selling all of his worldly possessions in the hopes of providing a cure—and now, despite being penniless, he was determined to ensure his daughter had a more profitable future than he ever did.

Freya had received this lecture before, and she understood the sacrifices he'd made to guarantee her acceptance to this esteemed private academy. She was a creature of habit, and her habits had come to include solitude. Even though it hurt to watch the older girls laugh and talk about trivial things, Freya knew it was easiest to stay away and study.

As she scooped up a spoonful of green beans, an incredibly tall blonde student dropped her lunch tray beside hers and pulled up a chair. "Hello, fellow female. Would you like to . . ." Kitty glanced down at her palm, where she'd jotted down notes. ". . . have a sleepover? I hear they're popular in America."

Freya was frozen in place, unable to do more than blink timidly at the woman seated beside her. It was the same young woman who'd received detention earlier today from erasing formulas from the chalkboard and rewriting the correct chemical compositions.

"Sorry," Kitty corrected with a smile, "Where are my manners? Hi. My name is Natasha, and I would like to be your friend." Freya's frightened disposition confused Natasha, who thought she'd done fairly well with the icebreaker. "I'm new here. Exchange student, of sorts."

Freya nervously glanced around the mess hall, as if the answer to why this woman was talking to her would be revealed in the eyes of the surrounding students. Was this some kind of prank? It wouldn't be the first.

"We're in all the same classes," Kitty commented offhandedly. "Is our chemistry teacher always going to be an ignorant asshole? I mean, who writes the wrong formula on the board with that much confidence? He never would have gotten away with this in Russia."

"You're from Russia?" Freya dared to squeak. "My—" Coughing self-consciously and fiddling with her glasses, she began again. "My parents were born there."

"Small world." Kitty reached up and brushed strands of her long blonde wig behind her ear. "You speak any Russian?"

"Da."

Natasha lit up at the confession, breaking out into an excited conversation that had most of the students staring at them by the time the bell rang.

* * *

"Did he blame it all on the goat?"

"Yes!" Kitty exclaimed. "Can you believe such a thing?"

Freya laughed loudly, but she caught herself halfway through and fought to keep her voice down, even though the two of them were outside. Papa didn't approve of boisterousness.

After the last class of the day had been let out, Kitty volunteered to walk with Freya to the public library. The two laughed as Kitty relayed ridiculous stories about her brief involvement with a traveling circus.

"Well," Freya announced quietly when they reached the library, "I better go. Papa doesn't like it when I'm late for dinner, and . . . I have a lot of studying to do."

"I'll see you tomorrow?"

Freya opened her mouth to speak but nothing came out. Shuffling her feet, she nodded before bolting up the steps leading to the large building.

"Miss Krause? Is everything alright?"

Kitty reached up to tap the device. "Hey, Finch. Everything's fine. Got close to Freya like you asked me to. She's so sweet, she might have given me a cavity."

"Find out anything relevant?"

"Her father is a possibility. He's running the poor girl ragged."

"I'm afraid I'll be of no help for a few hours more." A loud beeping sound echoed over the line. "I'm . . . actually, I have to go. Surgery's about to start."

Kitty waited a few minutes before approaching the library. Scoping out the main floor, she found no trace of Freya, so she crept through the shelves, out of sight. It wasn't until she reached the third floor that she found her, curled up on a chair in front of a library computer. Crouching down behind a shelf housing spy novels, Kitty swung her backpack off her shoulder and pulled out a laptop.

It was laughably easy to hack into the library servers, but it took Kitty a moment to realize what she had stumbled upon. At first she thought she'd probed the wrong computer, but the longer she read through the messages, she more she realized why Freya's number had come up.

Kitty turned to lean back against the shelf as she settled down to read through a lengthy online chat spanning back nearly six months. Instead of signing up for a Facebook account or talking to strangers online from her own home, the young woman had opted to chat only from the safety of the library—difficult to trace, and it kept her father from walking in on her secret double life.

As Kitty read through the messages, her shoulders sagged with sorrow. It was a scenario that happened all too often: lonely young woman turns to the Internet to confide in someone anonymously, only to have their naivety preyed upon by evil people with sinister intentions. From what Kitty had gathered from their interactions, Freya's father was strict and unyielding when it came to parties, friends, and especially boyfriends.

It was stupid—incredibly stupid, no doubt—to get involved with strangers over the Internet, but a small part of Kitty couldn't blame Freya for reaching out. None of the boys at her school wanted anything to do with her. The ones in her classes were four years older, and the boys her own age teased her for being smart and shy and whatever other trait they could latch onto.

"Oh, you poor fool." Kitty skimmed through the messages, reading as quickly as she could, until she reached the end. The two had plans to meet for the first time, at the insistence of the username _simplelife42_ , who Kitty suspected was no doubt actually forty-two and not the fifteen-year-old highschooler from Brooklyn he claimed to be.

"Aspiring poet, my ass." Slamming her laptop shut, Kitty realized why she was sent here. She needed to sit the poor girl down and give her a lecture about online safety. Simple enough.

She stood and faced the computer Freya was seated at, only to find her station deserted.

"Oh, shit," Kitty breathed. Bolting for the front entrance, she burst out of the library and onto the sidewalk. Spinning around in a circle, she searched for the familiar colors of Freya's school uniform, but the girl was gone. "Shit, shit, shit." Plopping down on the curb, Kitty took her laptop back out and typed madly at the keys, bringing the chat back up to find the location of their planned meet up.

* * *

 _Simplelife42_ was late.

Freya pulled self-consciously at her shirtsleeve and glanced around the deserted pizza parlor. It hadn't been her intension to ever meet her online acquaintance in person, but Tony was different. He was just as sad and lonely as she was, and he'd written her poetry that he insisted on reading to her in person. Freya was quite certain the two of them were in love.

A bell chimed to signal someone had entered, and Freya jumped up with nerves, searching for the young man. She found Kitty instead.

" _There you are_ ," Natasha panted furiously. In a few strides she cleared the small building to the back tables where Freya was standing awkwardly. "What the hell do you think you're doing? You're smarter than this."

"Natasha?" Freya's cheeks immediately turned a dark red. "What are you doing here?"

"Taking you home, that's what. This wig is itching my scalp, and I want to take a nap."

"What's your rush?" A waiter near the front of the store pulled the shades down, while another slid a wooden board across the door to secure it shut. It was only when the man who had spoken stepped forward that Kitty realized the entire establishment was deserted.

* * *

"This is so monotonous, I could barf." Despite being handcuffed to a chair, Kitty looked anything but frightened. "Don't you pervs have any legit forms of making money? You know, like a lucrative drug deal, or something? Human trafficking isn't worth its weight in water, if you ask me. I suggest cocaine instead."

Freya—who'd been handcuffed to a chair across from Kitty—shivered with hysterics. Her eyes, red and puffy, continued to spill heavy tears down her cheeks as she whispered degrading insults to herself.

Natasha watched the young woman with increasing interest. "Why are you even here?" Kitty asked evenly, trying her best to calm the frantic girl down. "No offense, but how does someone as smart as you do something so irresponsible?"

Rambling through her tears, Freya stuttered something about a boyfriend.

"Boyfriend?" Kitty sneered dismissively. "What do you want a boyfriend for? Boys carry diseases. And they talk too much." Shaking her head at the thought, Kitty added, "You should get a cat, or a pigeon, or something."

"I'm so _stupid,_ " the miserable girl sobbed. "I knew . . . I _knew_ this was stupid."

It was difficult for Natasha to watch someone so young fear for their life the way Freya feared for hers. Natasha didn't care much for humans, but there was something about endangered children that made her incensed. Kitty could watch atrocity after atrocity unfold without much more than a yawn, but adding a child into the mix flipped some kind of switch. The thought of someone hurting an adolescent made her crazy.

"Freya," Kitty called softly. "Look at me, sweetheart. Hey. I won't let anyone touch you, okay?"

Just as the words of comfort were said, one of the five men belonging to the gang grasped Freya's shoulder, making the frightened girl scream.

It was as if she was back home in Germany, wandering the grassy field outside the primary school. Mildred and Natasha always walked the school grounds hand-in-hand during breaks, but on this particular afternoon, their peaceful stroll was interrupted when one of the boys from their class confronted Mildred, angry that she had rejected his earlier offer of a kiss. Natasha stood by at first, curiously observing the social exchange, but the second Mildred began to cry, Natasha picked up a rock and preceded to attack the source of her twin's emotional pain.

Kitty could feel herself falling back into that trance—a state of blurry, robotic fury carried out with blunt force. "You're making me angry," Kitty told the man. Her words came out flat and dispassionate, but it was the soulless glint in her eyes that reveled the true danger the men were in. "You won't like me when I'm angry."

"No," the man crooned, much to the hearty laughter of his crew standing behind him, "I think I'm going to like you even more when you're angry."

Kitty snorted, rolling her eyes dismissively. "Do you honestly believe you're the first man to tie me up and demand sex? You're all sloppy amateurs."

"Listen closely." The leader stepped forward, flicking a switchblade and running the sharp metal down the front of Kitty's shirt. A popping sound followed the length of the blade as the man dragged his knife through the stretched wool, each of the knits snapping free. "There's something you should know about me. I like my women silent."

"Since we're sharing secrets," Kitty cut in, "there's something you should know about _me_. I suffered a very serious accident as a child, and since that day, anywhere up to 80% of my body no longer feels pain. Which is why when I broke all the metacarpals in my right hand thirty seconds ago, I didn't feel a damn thing. Freya," she added blankly, while the men took a second for her words to sink in, "close your eyes, and keep them shut."

* * *

Detective Carter approached the entrance of the pizza parlor, asking questions along the way. She was headed home from a long day in the office when a call came in about gunfire in the area. It wasn't until she noticed Fusco leaning against the brick building that she broke away from the red and blue flashing lights surrounding the establishment.

Fusco straightened when he saw her coming. "You seen it yet?" he asked, nodding at the front door. "I'm not squeamish, but . . . it's a bit much in there. Especially since, you know . . . I'm a guy and all."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"I guess that means you _haven't_ seen it," Fusco huffed. "Place is covered in blood, and I mean _literally_ covered. Five dead—Bosnian gangsters. Real fun crowd. Specialize in sex trafficking. They . . . uh, well . . . they all have intense genital mutilation." Fusco shook his head at the thought. "Their family jewels are no longer attached to their bodies, is what I'm trying to say."

"I'm gonna check it out," Carter announced, already heading back to the front door.

"Have fun. I'm catching some air before I go back in."

* * *

Reese tapped his earpiece, already anticipating the sound of Kitty's voice. "Our end is all cleared up. Doctor and her wife are safe. Find anything more about Freya?"

A long pause followed, but right before he could repeat the question, Kitty replied, "John, I need you to come get me."

"Is Freya safe?"

"Not a scratch on her," Kitty huffed. "I know how to do my job."

"Where are you?" Reese breathed in irritation.

"I'm sending you an address. Don't bring Finch. Hurry."

Reese took note of Natasha's weary tone and complete lack of usual crudeness and frowned. He answered the call expecting to get hit on by some capacity, and the fact that he didn't made him—if not _worried_ , per say—intrigued to find out why.

"I'm bleeding out," Kitty rasped, "and I need you to keep me from dying."

* * *

John found her on the rooftop of a low rate motel in a bad part of town. She was slumped up against a ventilation shaft, wheezing louder than a broken radiator. Even in the darkening hours of the afternoon, Reese could still see the blood seeping through a large gash in her abdomen.

Panting heavily, Kitty looked up and spotted him, but she was too tired to smile. "How good are you with a needle?" Blood trailed down a gash on her forehead, right above her eyebrow.

"How bad is it?" Without waiting for permission, he carefully peeled her shirt up to reveal the gushing wounds. Thin rivulets of blood dripped slowly down her pale ribcage where someone had repeatedly slashed at her, but it was a sizable hunk of dangling flesh that caught Reese's eye. A knife had cut her open almost to the bone, severing skin and layers of muscle. If he was quick, he might be able to apply enough pressure to save the skin. "Got anything to wrap this up with?"

"Use my shirt if you have to." Exhaling shakily, Kitty swayed, reaching out randomly to steady herself. "I've been bleeding for a while. I think I need to sit down."

Reese hoisted Natasha up and helped support her on the walk to the stairwell. "Come on," he said huskily. "There's a safe house not far from here. If I let you die on a rooftop covered in bird droppings, Finch will never let me hear the end of it."

* * *

"You're telling me none of this hurt?"

"I didn't feel most of it," she whispered. "I mean, I could feel that they'd done _something_ , but it didn't hurt."

John snipped another length of thread and surveyed his handiwork. Each stitch was precise and neat. Hopefully, the wound would heal without infection. He'd tried his best to clean it beforehand, but the threat of contamination with a wound so deep was still a very real possibility. "Why did you ask me not to bring Harold?"

"I killed those men. I broke Harold's rules." Kitty's tired eyes fluttered close. "I'm not in the mood for a lecture."

"What makes you think _I_ won't give you one?"

Her eyes—encircled with a deep red from blood loss—opened wide with worry. "You're not going to tell him about this, are you?"

"No," Reese answered after a pause. "But I can't guarantee he won't find out on his own. You left quite a mess. Fusco's already called me about it. Shooting someone in the head four times is a bit much, even by your standards."

"None of this can be traced back to Freya. She's safe. That's all that matters."

"And how are you supposed to explain your physical state to Finch?"

"I'm _me,_ John. This isn't atypical of my usual physical state." Kitty chuckled, but the effort exhausted her, and she ended up slumped back in her seat, not bothering to wipe at her damp forehead glistening with sweat. "I—" she began, pausing to think. "I'm not entirely sure what happened. When I saw how scared she was, when he put his hands on her, it was sort of like I . . . blacked out."

"Blacked out?" Reese finished wrapping the stitched flesh with gauze and tied it tight. "Has this happened before?"

"Once or twice," Kitty mumbled.

"Natasha, you've just admitted to multiple lapses into a state of berserk. I'm going to need a better explanation than that."

"I don't like it when people hurt kids." A noise that sounded very much like a laugh hissed out of the man. "What?" Kitty snapped.

"I guess we have something in common after all."

When she answered, her voice was barely a whisper. "Did you mean what you said the other day?"

"About what? Hey. _Hey._ " John slapped at her cheek until her eyes fluttered back open. "Did I mean what I said about what?"

"Being my friend."

Reese raised his eyebrows slightly at the question. He'd seen a lot of death in his day, but he'd never been asked for confirmation of friendship by a dying woman before. "Yeah," he breathed, flashing as convincing a smile as he could, "sure."

"Okay. I'll tell you everything you want to know. But first, there's something I need you to do for me."

* * *

Harold Finch shuffled into the library and over to his computer. Bear was already waiting for him on the new cushion Reese purchased, much to Kitty's loud opposition. Clicking on the base line for their communication, he tried, once again, to reach either of his coworkers. "Mr. Reese? John, can you hear me?" Clicking a new line, he called, "Natasha? Is anyone there?"

Everything had gone smoothly with their number. The doctor and her wife were safe and out of harms way, but it had been a while since Natasha had checked in. Now both John and Kitty were nowhere to be found, and Finch was left wondering if his entire operation had suddenly and unexpectedly been reduced to himself and a dog.

Loud, deep, clanging echoes came from the west end of the library, startling Finch. Grabbing Bear's leash, he hobbled down the hall, past the periodicals and the large reading area, into the restricted section where rare books were housed in high metal cages.

"Mr. Reese?" Harold called with evident relief. "I have been trying to get ahold of you for—" He stopped short at the sight of welding gear strewn out all over the floor. "What are you doing?"

"Morning, Harold." Reese pulled off his welding helmet and tossed it aside. "Perfect timing. I just finished."

"Finished what, exactly?"

Reese turned to face the cage and called, "You want to tell him, or should I?"

Kitty appeared almost immediately. "Hey handsome," she called through the holes just big enough for her to slip her slender fingers through. "I was wondering when you'd show up."

Finch looked from Kitty to Reese, back to Kitty before settling on Reese. "I'm sorry, but I haven't the slightest inkling of what you two are doing."

"I'm institutionalizing myself." Kitty held up her broken hand, now bandaged in a tight splint. "I acquired a series of injuries looking after our latest number. She's perfectly fine, Harold," Kitty cut in at the look on his face. "Escorted her home. Turns out she'd been spending time after-school at the public library in order to correspond with a fully grown man masquerading as a young boy her own age. He won't be bothering her anymore."

"And this . . ." Finch gestured, confused, at the tall metal cage, "warrants institutionalization? I'm afraid I'm not following."

"The guy wasn't exactly happy I spoiled his plans to deflower a minor," Kitty explained, lifting up her shirt to show him the bandages. "Shanked me a few . . . _dozen_ times. I've already talked to John about it, and we both agreed it would be in all our best interests if I was securely contained until I heal."

"Will your apartment not suffice?"

Kitty shifted her weight, jutting her hip delicately to the side. "The cages were already here."

"I suppose I should make my inquiry abundantly clear." Finch handed Bear's leash to Reese, so he could approach without agitating Natasha with the animal. "Why do you require a cage, Miss Krause? I know you're not his biggest fan, but the library is perfectly safe with Bear around."

"It's not _my_ safety I'm worried about." Natasha had already explained her mental state to Reese. With lack of a better way to describe it, she'd called her brain _fuzzy_ and requested to be locked somewhere with welded windows and no way for her to pick any locks from the inside. But thoroughly explaining her mental state to Finch would require admission to five accounts of murder, so, instead, she said, "I've lost a lot of blood, and I tend to get . . . cognitively unstable when I lose too much blood." Kitty lowered her voice to a low purr, so Finch had to move in closer to better hear her, like she'd hoped. He was almost close enough for her to touch, if the wire holes had been big enough for her hands to pass through. "Remember when I said my brain is like a beehive? It's been shook. Hard."

Finch studied the iron confinement. A tiny bed sat in the corner, next to a small stand with packaged food and gallons of water neatly piled. Reese had spent all night welding together a separate section leading to the bathrooms for her convenience. In addition to attaching thick bars across the two windows within the cage, Reese also attached two sets of door locks only accessible from the outside. Finch frowned slightly. "Seems a little excessive."

Kitty's lips slowly pulled up into a mocking smile. "You know me better than that, Harold. Anything less than excessive is unable to properly contain me."

Natasha looked just the way she had at the safe house after Bonnie's relocation. There was an otherworldly paleness to her skin, half-moons the color of fresh bruises under her bottom lashes, shiny beads of perspiration dotting her forehead, and an unhealthy red tint to her eyes. Harold realized his scrutiny of her features had dragged on for longer than socially acceptable, so he cleared his throat. "I assume John has already attended to your wounds?"

"He has." Kitty pressed a flat palm against the metal. "He even assembled an Ikea futon for me. You're a real pal, John. I owe you a beer."

"A beer?" As he turned to bring Bear back to the main base of operations, Reese grumbled, "You owe me a mansion in Malibu at this rate." Bear's claws clicked against the flooring, and then the two were gone.

"Well," Finch announced uncomfortably, "I suppose if you think this is for the best."

"How will you and John get anything done without me?" she teased.

"Mr. Reese and I preformed our duties like clockwork before you came along." Finch meant it as a teasing joke, but Kitty's coquettish grin dulled until she looked uncomfortably hurt by the comment. "Is there anything I can get you?" he asked quickly, attempting to patch the error.

"No," she sighed dejectedly and slunk over to her makeshift bed.

Finch stood by the door, peering into the room lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. "Just . . . yell if you need anything." When she didn't answer, he waited a moment longer, then turned and followed Mr. Reese's trail.

* * *

"What are you reading?"

Kitty glanced up from the comic book and flashed its title in Finch's direction. "John said I'm a heathen for never having heard of Batman. Gave me a whole stack of issues."

Finch was pleased to hear that John and Natasha could have a conversation without it resulting in destruction of property or physical harm to one another. In fact, Reese had recently toned down his usual scathing remarks while around her.

"He also _demanded_ that I listen to music by Queen," Kitty continued. "I've never heard of her before. Do you know if she's any good?"

" _She_ is actually a group of men," Finch corrected, smiling at the confused look on Kitty's face. "I'll have to dig up some old records for you to listen to."

Natasha returned to her comic book. "On what?" she countered.

"On this." Wheeling the device closer, Finch was pleased at Kitty's excited response to seeing the gramophone she'd reconstructed.

"You went back and got it?"

"I also took the liberty of scouting the local record shops for music from the Swing Era. It's not much," he admitted. "But I'll be on the lookout for more."

By this point Kitty had pressed up hard against the cage, looking very ill, but very enthusiastic. "Bring it in," she ordered. "Did Reese give you the keys?"

"On one condition." Tugging Bear's collar, Finch guided the yipping dog closer to the cage. "It's an incentive not to try and walk out the front door."

Bear barked impatiently at the sight of Kitty. Flinching, the frightened woman backed away until she'd reached her bed, patiently watching Finch wheel in a cart with the heavy music player atop it. She waited until the door had been locked behind him—effectively keeping the flea-ridden mutt away from her—before darting across the room to inspect the selection. Next to a small stack of records were two rows of books. Kitty lifted one and flipped through it. "What is this?"

Harold leaned closer to better see which book she'd selected. "You told me once that you miss your native language. I've selected works from Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky—in their original Russian—as well as my personal favorites from Kafka—in their original German, of course."

"I've never heard of these people." Kitty glanced up from the book. "They any good?"

"Literary giants," he confirmed. "We'll have to discuss them once you've finished."

Kitty chuckled lightheartedly. "Think John will mind if I take a break from the Caped Crusader?"

* * *

It had been five days since Kitty claimed the library as a permanent residence. In that time, Mr. Reese and Detective Fusco had dealt with three numbers, but for the past 48 hours, all was silent.

No numbers meant leisure time, and there was one activity in particular that Finch found himself actively engrossed in. He tapped the play button on the language app he'd installed. Adjusting the earphone plugged into the cell, Finch listened carefully as a friendly voice repeated the phrase he'd been practicing.

"Möchten Sie etwas zu trinken," he attempted. Pressing the play button again, he repeated the phrase over and over until he felt confident in his pronunciation. The plan was to surprise Natasha the next time the two of them had tea together. When he noticed her tea was getting low, he'd ask in German if she would like a refill. It was a small attempt to make her more comfortable—not only within the confines of the library, but within the bond of camaraderie that was forming within their team. Natasha and John seemed to get along perfectly fine as of late. Finch figured his linguistic contribution was more than doing his part.

The app was broken up into topic sections ranging from greetings to essential phrases like "Where's the toilet?" and "Do you speak English?" But as Finch scrolled through the categories, one in particular caught his eye. He passed it twice before mustering the resolve to investigate it further.

Tapping the _relationships_ section, a long list of phrases popped up. It wasn't until his damp thumb refused to swipe against the touch screen that he noticed his palms were sweaty. Instinctively, he frowned at the nonsensical reaction.

Grace was suddenly at the forefront of his memory. When they were still a couple, it brought him no shortage of happiness to bond with her in ways he'd previously found impossible with other humans.

It wasn't the same with Natasha. It wasn't the same at all. For every successful step forward, the girl always seemed to take three long-legged steps back, and his goal wasn't even romantic intimacy—despite her constant comments on the contrary.

Kitty had mentioned in passing, on more than one occasion, that she'd only had two successful friendships over the course of her life. Adding to this everything he'd managed to pry out of either her or Mr. Reese, Finch concluded he'd just have to try harder to make up for her social deficiency.

Wiping his hands on his slacks, he breezed through the expressions, not admitting to his anticipation of a specific sentiment. When he found it, he paused, ears ringing in the silence.

Finch wanted to know what it sounded like. He wanted to hear the correct pronunciation and intonations. He wanted to hear himself repeat it. "Du bist schön."

"Thanks, Harold. I need to shave, but I appreciate the compliment all the same."

Ripping the earphones out, Finch swiveled in his chair at the computer. "Mr. Reese," he rebuked guiltily, "what are you doing here? We don't currently have a new number."

"I bought Bear a chew toy." Reese squeaked it twice, exciting the animal to disproportionate levels. "If you want to learn German, I can help."

"No, thank you," Harold refused. "It's just something I was dabbling in."

"Harold," Reese said silkily, "if you want to serenade her in her native tongue, that's none of my business. But take it from a pro . . . your vowels need work."

* * *

Finch lifted a steaming teakettle, the foreign phrase he'd been practicing dangling on the tip of his tongue. In the end, he admitted cowardice and asked in English, "Would you care for some more tea?"

A pair of pale hands and a teacup appeared through the small square hole in the door. It was just big enough for Natasha's hands and small objects to fit through, and it made it easier than opening and closing the entire gate every time one of the men brought her food. A sliding sheet of metal could be pulled across the hole, locking it shut from the outside, but it was open now.

Finch filled the porcelain cup with a fragrant brew of oolong tea. The hands disappeared. He could hear her take a sip.

"Question."

Finch poured himself another cup. "Yes?"

"I read somewhere that crazy people don't know they're crazy. If I acknowledge the fact that I'm crazy, does that cancel out the fact that I'm crazy?"

Harold couldn't help but huff a laugh. "It's an unanswerable conundrum, I suppose."

Natasha's face appeared in the hole, smirking. "Cheater."

Finch brought his teacup down against its matching saucer and placed it on the breakfast cart he'd wheeled out this morning. Natasha's list of grocery recommendations was always brief, but this time she had asked for a porcelain tea set and a lifetime supply of oolong. On his way to the library this morning, Finch stopped by Chinatown to select the highest quality tea and a very attractive set of tea things.

"Question."

"I'm listening."

Finch could hear her teacup clatter against the saucer. "Did you mean what you said?"

The question sounded sad. Finch waited for clarification. When none came, he answered, "I've said many things in your presence, Miss Krause. You'll have to elaborate."

"About you and John not needing me."

It was nearly a week ago that he'd made that statement, and Natasha hadn't brought it up in all that time. Finch opened his mouth, but all that came out was a long sigh. "I shouldn't have said that." The longer she remained silent, the more uncomfortable he became. It was a great relief when she restarted the conversation on her own.

"Remember the labs I told you about? In Siberia?"

"Mm-hm."

"I escaped once. Before . . . you know. The _attack_. Word got out that Mildred had been accepted into the Bolshoi Ballet Company, so I got it in my head to quit the Siberian Volki without telling anyone. Hitched a ride out of the area on a passing logging truck. I practiced for days what I would say when I saw her again. Memorized a speech I thought would accurately portray how much I missed her." Kitty sniffed. "I remember seeing my mother first, from across the courtyard. I'd never seen her look happier. It was apparent she didn't need me. But . . . it was Mildred whose happiness hurt me. She wasn't supposed to be happy during our separation. I wasn't."

"Did you approach them?"

"No," she answered after a long pause. "I let them be happy, and I went back to the labs."

Finch paused to make sure he chose his words carefully. "Natasha, Mr. Reese and I both greatly appreciate your contributions to our operations. My comment was a poor attempt at humor made in bad taste, and I apologize if it hurt you. That was never my intention."

Harold could see her face through the cage, pressed up against the door. He watched her dark lashes flutter against metal, brushing back and forth as she blinked. "You mean it?"

"I do."

"One last question," she whispered, urging him to lean forward.

"Yes, Miss Krause?"

"If you were a porn star, what would your name be?"

"Ah, I'm afraid the jokes on you," Finch whispered back. "I'm growing immune to your attempts at shocking me."

"John!" Kitty screamed down the hallway. "What would Harold's porn name be?"

Reese answered almost immediately. "Headmaster Librarian."

Kitty couldn't decide what made her laugh harder—Reese's suggestion, or the look on Harold's face. Making sure to place her teacup down, out of the way, she bundled up on the floor, laughing so hard she broke out in a painful coughing fit.

From between uncontrollable cackles, Natasha heard Finch shout, "Do not encourage her, John."

* * *

 _Brooklyn_

Root studied the room intently, trying her best to learn as much about Natasha as possible from the layout of the apartment. As she expected, everything had a place. Each book was stacked meticulously in a bookshelf. A framed picture caught Samantha's eye. It was a photo of two children. Twin girls. One smiling happily for the camera, and the other looking very much put out by the whole affair.

"How adorable," Root crooned.

 _THE CRATE YOU ARE LOOKING FOR IS LEANING UP AGAINST THE NORTH SIDE OF THIS ROOM_

A whirring noise echoed through the quiet apartment as Mildred printed Root out new passport inserts and other identification under a pseudonym.

"Natasha has quite the setup here. Oooo," she exclaimed when she noticed the passport information. "Tokyo?"

 _IT IS WHERE MOST OF MY BODY WAS CREATED_

"I've never been there before. This should be fun." Root pocketed the documents. "Is this the crate you're talking about?"

 _YES_

 _MAKE SURE IT IS LOADED PROPERLY ONTO THE PLANE_

"Of course." Root placed a hand against the rough wood casing. "Do you mind if I . . . take a quick peek?"

 _GO AHEAD_

 _THERE IS LESS THAN A 1% CHANCE OF NATASHA ESCAPING HER SELF IMPOSED IMPRISONMENT_

 _WE HAVE TIME_

Root eagerly hefted the case down to rest on the floor. Digging a screwdriver in-between the slots of wood baring it shut, she popped the lid off and stood up to better see the overwhelming spectacle in front of her. In the crate, wrapped in a clear layer of waterproof protectant, was the world's most intricate robot model of a human. A life-sized likeness of Mildred Krause.

Root's manic smile widened the more excited she became, until it felt like nothing but pure adrenaline pumped hard and fast through her veins. "Hello, beautiful."


	19. Fatal Attraction

**If the thought of hanky-panky disturbs you, skip this chapter. I drank my weight in Earl Grey before writing this. You've been warned.**

* * *

 _2012, New York City_

Detective Carter finished logging information from her latest case, but her eyes kept wandering from the computer screen down to a photo of Mildred Krause in her desk drawer. A month ago, Carter let the young woman walk right out the door, and it was a decision that haunted her—mostly because she could not fully rationalize exactly why she made it.

As Kitty turned to leave the hotel that night, she stopped short in the doorway. " _My name is Natasha, by the way."_

Natasha Krause.

Carter wondered if the FBI had that information. Most likely not, she guessed, because they kept referring to her by her twin's name. Even if they _didn't_ know Natasha's real name, Carter knew she wouldn't be able to give it to them. It would lead to far too many questions that the detective couldn't answer. She reached up to rub at her eyes that stung sharply from staring at a computer all day.

"You still chasing ghosts?"

Carter looked up at Fusco, one hand guiltily closing the drawer with Mildred's smiling picture in it. "I don't know," she admitted tiredly. "I feel like the majority of recent cases have all been ghosts."

Fusco huffed a laugh. "Yeah? Between you and me, I hope this whole rogue Russian spy thing wraps up quick. Gives me the creeps."

Carter raised an eyebrow. "The creeps?"

"I don't know," Fusco answered offhandedly. "Something about the whole thing just seems . . . off. I mean _really_ off. You know how I went with the team to dig up the bodies?" Carter nodded. "Aside from a bullet to the skull, each of the bodies were completely unscathed."

"I know," she said, wondering where this was going. "I read the report."

"Yeah, well, they didn't write down the freaky part about Mildred." Fusco shook his head at the thought and turned to walk back to his own desk. "Girl's head was shaved completely bald."

* * *

 _2012, Tokyo_

Root held tightly to a handful of dark brown tresses. When Mildred told her to retrieve an important item from a safety deposit box Natasha had set up in Nebraska, she'd expected something a little more important than hair. It wasn't until Mildred explained whose hair it was that things clicked into place.

Root smiled at the wigmaker, gently reminding the woman that she was chosen due to her exceptional reputation, and that great care needed to be taken to ensure the wig was top quality. "It's for a very special person."

"You wait," the old woman suggested in broken English. "Come back in one day."

"No, I'd prefer to oversee the entire process." Pulling out a thick stack of yen, Root handed all of it to the surprised woman. "Thank you for understanding."

* * *

 _2012, New York City_

"Hey, Sir-Smiles-A-Lot, I need to ask a favor."

"I ask the favors, Lionel," Reese snapped coolly at the interruption. "I'm sure you'll survive without me this one time. I'm busy." Reaching up to tap his Bluetooth off, Reese returned his attention to the amusing exhibition in front of him.

Harold and Natasha had been locked in a game of chess for nearly two hours. The older man sat rigid in his seat, hands resting palms-down atop his knees while he waited in the stilted silence for Kitty to stop pacing and make up her mind. Natasha, however, behaved in a manner better suiting a caged tiger. Her fingers dug into metal as her eyes scanned sporadically across the board, sweat rolling down her face.

John sat back and watched his boss calmly contemplate his next move as the agitated young woman reached a hand through the hole in the door and _finally_ took her turn. Suppressing a smile was proving a difficult task for Reese. It was satisfying to watch her cocky superiority get knocked down a peg. When John played chess against her, Kitty slammed pieces down so quickly and confidently that the game never lasted long. Now, she was practically giving herself a stroke upon meeting her equal.

Finch reached for a piece, but the second he placed it in a square, Kitty shot up against the gate separating them, banging hard against the metal with her unbroken hand. "YOU CAN'T MOVE THERE!"

Finch flinched at the outburst, unaccustomed to such a loud noise after nothing but silence for so long. John was delighted when his boss—instead of replying meekly to her hostility—matched her frown. "Don't presume to tell me where I can or cannot move on my own turn."

" _NO,_ " she screamed at him, teeth bared in warning. "You can't move _there!_ I'll take your knight, you'll take my bishop, and then I'll take your bishop and win the whole thing with a damn _pawn_! I know what you're doing! _YOU'RE LETTING ME WIN!"_

John made himself comfortable as the heated argument escalated.

"Need I remind you," Finch cut in, "that this is merely a game? All either of us stand to lose is the title of victor—oh, Natasha," the man sighed heavily, sounding annoyed, "don't do that. You'll rip your stitches. Look. I'm moving my piece. Come down from there. It's your turn."

As the chase around the chessboard continued, Kitty slumped harder against the door until she was practically on the floor. Ten minutes later, Finch made the winning move.

"You are a worthy adversary, indeed, Miss Krause."

"Don't patronize me."

"You can't win them all." Finch gathered the game back in its box and stood to leave. "Is there anything you need before I retire for the day?"

In answer, Kitty shoved a small bundle of clothes through the hole.

"I'll have these done by tomorrow," Finch answered. "Goodnight, Miss Krause."

She made a noise that sounded like a dying animal.

"I need to take you out for a celebratory beer sometime, Finch. That was the most satisfying thing I've ever watched." Reese walked alongside the man back to the computer setup, eyeing the clothes in his arms. "I didn't know you did her laundry."

"I don't. I have them dry cleaned."

John thought back to the moment Kitty had stumbled—quite literally—into their lives with promises of dry cleaning bills for the mess she'd made all over Harold's new suit. Time had certainly changed things.

Finch noticed the amused expression. "Spit it out, Mr. Reese."

"You can't tell me you don't feel even the slightest bit triumphant?"

"Oh, alright," Finch relented with a smirk, "maybe just a _little_."

* * *

A spec of dust caught a small gust of wind and tumbled in a high arch over Kitty's head. She sighed, watching the spec swirl around overhead, and realized right before it landed softly on the ground that it was one of Beyoncé's feathers. Normally, she would have hopped up off her bed and swept up the feather, but the voice in her head that usually screamed for things to be orderly and disinfected was dulled to a low buzz. Apathy overpowered her obsessive-compulsion, and she found herself slumped into her futon, one arm dangling off the side.

A month after making the decision to lock herself in this cage, Kitty's mood took a drastic shift as the anniversary of her sister's death loomed over the library with a foreboding chill.

Finch noticed immediately and suggested she leave the cage. Her wound had healed enough to remove the stitches, but she continued to assert that it wasn't a good time yet. Finch tried his best to make time for daily conversation and attempted to give her a cellphone—so she could communicate throughout the day when he wasn't at the library—but she fervently rejected the offer, claiming she needed a technology detox. In actuality, Kitty was still angry about Mildred's refusal to give up Root's location, and she didn't want a way for the disobedient computer to reach her. Instead, they settled on a pair of baby monitors that allowed the two to speak to one another anytime Finch was at his computer.

But as more numbers flooded in, Finch was called away to either research information or help Mr. Reese firsthand on the frontlines, leaving Kitty alone with Beyoncé for company. One night Finch listened curiously to a series of what sounded like coughs and wondered if he should offer Natasha a trip to the pharmacy for medicine. It was only when he was about to make the proposal through the monitor's speaker that he realized Kitty wasn't coughing—she was crying.

Reese also noticed her emotional decline and tried to help in his own way. He'd never been much of a talker, so on occasion he found himself sitting for an hour or two, completely silent beside her in the cage, listening to his favorite classic rock station on a small radio he bought. Unable to comfort her with words, Reese compensated by buying her things—comics, music, an illustrated guide to medieval torture—but the gifts never produced more than a brief smile of gratitude.

Kitty, feeling physically ill at the memory of her sister, rolled over to face the wall on the far side of the room. With her back to the door, she didn't realize a young redhead had approached until she heard an annoyed voice call out, "I'm gone a month, and you fall apart? Typical."

Kitty shot up.

"You're so overdramatic." Bonnie stood on the other side of the gate, smiling through a layer of deep red lipstick. She was dressed in a form fitting two-piece suit of her own creation—styled on designs from the 1930's—with her red hair tamed into two victory rolls. "Harold says you aren't eating, so I guess I'm supposed to talk some sense into you, or something."

"Hey, Bonnie."

"Hey, asshole," she replied, smiling even wider. "Jesus, you look like death. You gonna let me in, or what? I've got food and a gift."

* * *

Harold rounded the long hallway corner with a pushcart laden with tea things purchased for this occasion. An ornate tray of honeys, sugar cubes, and cream were laid out on a fancy lace doily next to a steaming teapot.

Bringing Miss McCully to the library had been Reese's idea. " _Nothing we do is helping her depression,_ " he argued, " _so we better change tactics, or she might not be alive the next time we check up on her."_

Finch had no choice but to agree. Maybe a feminine presence would help the situation in a way Harold and John were incapable of providing?

As he approached the cage, Finch felt a knot in his chest uncoil like a retreating snake—a jolt of relief at the sound of Natasha's laughter. It wasn't the forced polite chuckle she often coughed out in an effort to try and placate his growing concern with her mental health. This was a robust, full-lunged laughter that did more than simply echo off the walls.

"Of course it's custom made," he heard Bonnie snap playfully. "Remember I took your measurements at the safehouse? Do you honestly think your long-ass legs would fit any of the standard sizes we manufacture? The models I work with are tall, but you're a certified _giraffe_."

"Afternoon," Harold called politely. "I thought maybe you two would like a cup of tea?"

"Harold, _look!_ " Kitty yelled when she spotted him. After Reese called for her help, Bonnie was given three days to finish a design she had in mind for her incredibly tall friend. Kitty's navy blue suit was fashioned off of patterns from the 1940s, with a gathering of white lace around a feminine collar, a cinched waist accentuated with a matching belt, and a pair of fitted pants.

Bonnie watched her friend spin in a circle and nodded approvingly. "I figured if you're going to go running around kicking ass, then you might as well look sexy doing it."

"I feel like a thousand bucks."

"With any luck, my stuff will be worth that much some day. What do you think, Mr. Finch? She's hot, right?"

Finch commanded Bear to keep watch at the door and closed the cage behind him, wheeling the cart towards the two women. "It certainly suits you," he answered, not taking the bait. "Pun intended."

"Then it's settled." Kitty happily accepted a cup of tea and took a seat on the futon beside Bonnie. "I'm never taking it off. Unless, of course," she added with a wink in Finch's direction, "you ask me to."

Ignoring the comment, he turned to Bonnie. "How's school?"

"It's like a dream. I've been recruited for an internship with a company that specializes in vintage reproduction." Bonnie straightened her cat-eye reading glasses and accepted a cup of tea from Harold's outstretched hand. "I'm thinking about starting my own lingerie line."

"And calling it what?" Kitty teased, flicking a stray red hair by Bonnie's ear. "Fire of my loins?"

Finch watched the two with increasing confusion. It was apparent that even after all these years, he still did not comprehend women. Together, Kitty and Bonnie fought constantly, nagged relentlessly, eventually resorted to threats, but never followed through and always fell back into an easy friendship. Now they had been forced into arguably the same situation, and no matter what snarky comments either of them made, happy smiles never left their lips.

"I know why you're in here," Bonnie commented softly. "Why you haven't left this cage yet. Yes, Kitty, I've seen your injuries. You don't have to show me again. That's not why you're still here." Pausing, she shifted to place her teacup on the cart Finch wheeled in. Once her hands were free, Bonnie took hold of Natasha's forearm, soothing a hand over her pale skin. "Losing my mother was . . . I remember it. Watching her die. One moment she was alive, and then suddenly she wasn't. She wasn't anything. Just a wilted body on our living room couch. I was nine."

The more Bonnie disclosed about her life, the more uncomfortable Finch became. She was talking to Natasha, not him, and it felt invasive to sit in on their conversation despite never having been asked to leave. He glanced towards the door, wondering if he could discreetly depart without causing a disturbance.

"I still wake up screaming." Bonnie's voice came out flat and quiet as she stared out across the room, deep in thought. "Sometimes I'll hear a voice that sounds like her, and for a second my brain doesn't process that she's dead—that she's gone—and I spin around like a crazy person, looking for her."

"What do you do," Natasha whispered, "to make it stop?"

"Did you love your sister?"

Unlike the time Kitty's father asked her this question in her childhood, there was no hesitation in Natasha's answer. "More than anything."

"Then it's probably never going to stop entirely. But," Bonnie added at the frightened look on Kitty's face, "it won't hurt as much over time. And then, one day, you'll be able to look back on the memory of her and the happiness of knowing her will outweigh the sadness that she's gone."

Bonnie sunk into the taller girl's side, and Natasha rested her chin on the top of Bonnie's head. For a long time, nobody said anything. Harold wasn't entirely sure what to do. It was the silence that ate away at him. He normally relished silence—it gave him clarity—but this silence felt as intimate as Bonnie's life story, and he felt unwelcome to partake in it.

"We have to go." Bonnie suddenly perked up at the thought of something. "Our reservation is at 10, and we still have to buy shoes to match your suit, brush some color onto those cheeks, and style your hair."

Kitty still had hold of her hands, even after Bonnie stood up to stand in front of her. "Reservations for what?"

Raising an eyebrow, the redhead tugged at her bottom lip with her teeth. "I bought us tickets to the Naughty Nordic."

"The hell is that?"

"A Viking themed strip club."

Finch fumbled and dropped his teacup.

"Why, exactly, would I go to a strip club with you?" Kitty's face was scrunched in confusion. "Haven't you seen more than enough naked women in your lifetime?"

Bonnie rolled her eyes. "No, it's a male strip club."

"What does that mean?"

"Are you serious?" Bonnie sighed, still smiling. "It means the strippers are _men_."

"You're shitting me." Kitty turned to glance at Finch, who was so uncomfortable he had frozen in place, unable to flee. "Does such a place actually exist, Harold?"

"It better exist," Bonnie laughed. "I paid good money for these tickets. Hurry up."

"Wait," Kitty countered, still confused. "You're serious?"

"I've spent the majority of my life fulfilling the fantasies of men," Bonnie spat. "It's about time I'm on the receiving end for once."

"God bless America," Kitty exclaimed excitedly. "Harold, I need you to call off the parasite-ridden canis sitting by the door. I'm breaking out of here."

Hand in hand, the two women walked out, leaving behind a very disoriented Finch.

"We'll have to stop by the ATM to get singles."

"Hell no." Kitty's maniacal laughter rang through the halls as they disappeared out of sight. "I'm pulling out fifty dollars worth of quarters to throw."

* * *

"He's been a sweetheart." Grace smiled cheerfully and reached up to stroke Pistachio, who happily clung to her shoulder. "Didn't give me any problems at all."

"That's hard to believe, but I'm glad to hear it." Natasha, dressed once again in her male persona, gave her pigeon the side-eye.

She'd looked all over for the bird after returning home from Root's abduction, but neither John nor Mama Zhong had any leads as to where the pigeon had gone. Panicked, Kitty searched her apartment, the park, and eventually pulled on her suit and facial hair and ended up at Grace's apartment. Of all the places he chose to fly, Pistachio had taken refuge in the artist's studio, keeping her company as she painted. Kitty quickly made up an excuse about Pistachio flying away while they were on vacation and asked if a note had been tied to his leg. Grace had no knowledge of the note Finch had scribbled at the motel, and she guessed it must have either fallen off or deteriorated in a rainstorm. She'd been watching over the bird ever since.

"Can I get you anything?" Grace wrung her hands. "Coffee? Tea? I have a few scones in the pantry."

Natasha had one last quick look around the entry of the apartment. A framed photo of Grace and Harold had once sat atop a shelf underneath a window in the living room, but Mildred calculated it was only a matter of time before Natasha was invited inside the apartment, so Root broke in while Grace was away and hid it behind the refrigerator.

"No, I'm afraid we need to be going." Kitty winked. "Lots of secret spy notes to send."

Grace laughed, but it lacked enthusiasm. It was nice to have another living thing in the apartment, and now it was leaving on the shoulder of a man she didn't want to leave either. Natasha noticed her apparent distress, walked over where Grace was standing awkwardly by her easel, and leaned down to kiss her cheek.

"It's really no problem," Grace all but begged. "I can bird-sit him anytime. Just . . . just don't hesitate to ask."

"We'll be back to bother you soon," Kitty teased. "You'll be sick of us by the end of the week."

Grace followed them to the front door, waving goodbye as the two disappeared into the city. As she turned to walk back into her apartment, Grace brought a startled hand up to her chest, gasping in surprise at what had been placed beside the door. A pure white release dove cooed happily from within a beautiful ornate cage.

Grace glanced back towards the street, but Nathan was gone. A note was attached to the cage, addressed to her in flowing black ink. Opening the envelope, Grace pulled out a letter:

 _Reasons Why I Use A Carrier Pigeon #2: Free postage (unless you account for having to buy birdseed. Consider the attached $20 as a startup donation.)_

 _Reasons Why I Use A Carrier Pigeon #3: Great conversationalist_

 _Reasons Why I Use A Carrier Pigeon #4: Loyal companion_

 _Reasons Why I Use A Carrier Pigeon #5: Doesn't argue over what to eat for dinner_

 _P.S. I haven't named her yet. I figured I'd leave that up to you._

 _P.P.S. Treat her well, and she'll deliver anything that doesn't weigh more than she does. (Probably not a good idea to give her anything but paper mail.)_

 _P.P.P.S. She's very docile and was easy enough to train. I can teach you how to further train her if you'd like._

 _P.P.P.P.S. Although she has mentally marked your residence as her permanent home, I've taught her how to reach my residence, in case you ever want to talk. Not that you should feel obligated to._

 _P.P.P.P.P.S. Sorry for rambling._

* * *

It was a lovely late spring day. Not quite the mugginess of summer, but no longer the bitter chill of winter. Reese—doughnut box in hand—made his way down the library hall. He hadn't been called in, but it was a habit to stop by in the morning to double check if they had a new number. Today, he stopped short at the sound of Kitty's voice.

" . . . and so I look this guy right in the eye and say, _No, you idiot! I said NULL-TERMINATION._ He had no clue what I was talking about." Kitty reached for a piece of paper and a pen and quickly scribbled something down to show Finch. "Look, this is what he entered. What the hell is _this?_ This isn't an award-winning string, I'll tell you that much. I give this a grade of . . . C++."

It was only after John heard the rare sound of Harold's laughter that he turned on his heel, popping a doughnut in his mouth as he silently exited the library without ever being detected.

* * *

After discovering Bear spoke Dutch, Natasha spent hours ordering the dog around, seemingly drunk off her newfound power. Much to the canine's disappointment, Kitty reclaimed her seat next to Finch's computer desk after tossing Bear's bed a significant distance away towards the bookshelves and ordering him to sit until further notice.

"You know what I've just realized?" she asked. "Catwoman totally stole my aesthetic."

Finch didn't bother to explain it was the other way around, considering the comics were created years before her birth. Instead, he asked, "How did you enjoy the game last night?"

"I feel more American every day." Kitty paused to reflect on the baseball game she and Reese attended on their day off. It was a miracle Reese never knocked her unconscious, considering she spent the entirety of the game either asking questions about the rules or asking why the umpire was still alive. "I was highly disappointed that nobody _actually_ killed the umpire. It was such a tease."

"Life is full of disappointments," said Finch, smiling with amusement. "Do you know what the difference is between _unlawful_ and _illegal?_ "

Natasha's brows knit together while she thought. "I thought those were synonyms?"

"Unlawful means something is against the law," he explained. "Ill-eagle is a sick bird."

Kitty threw her head back to laugh. Pausing from her copy of _War and Peace,_ she looked up and asked, "What are you reading?"

"A book about gravity." Harold glanced down at her. "It's impossible to put down." Finch's smile widened as he returned his focus to the book. Upon realizing she enjoyed stupid puns, he couldn't seem to stop telling terrible jokes in an effort to keep the young woman from retreating back into whatever quiet trance came over her when she was alone too long.

"Can I ask you a question?"

"You just did, Miss Krause."

"Can I ask another question?"

Finch didn't bother looking up from the book. "If it has anything at all to do with my naked body, then no." When Kitty didn't laugh, he spared a glance in her direction.

"Do you ever feel repressed by it?" Kitty tapped at her head. "Your brain. All the stuff that's collected inside over the course of your life."

"Do you?"

"Every waking second," she answered. "That's why I drink so much. It helps calm my brain down. Makes it easier to think straight. What do you do to calm your brain down?"

"What makes you think I require a mental routine?"

Kitty shrugged. "I just assumed. I've never met someone as smart as me before."

"Winning you at chess does not make me a genius."

"I'm not just talking about chess. You know _everything_. Well," she amended, "you know a lot. I hardly ever have to explain things to you. Hell, half the time you have to explain things to me."

Harold turned in his seat to peer down at her. "And you think this makes me cognitively superior?" He watched as she reached for a piece of paper and a pen, hastily scribbling down a long list of numbers and symbols. When she finished, Kitty handed the string of code to Harold and waited for a reaction.

"Do you know what that is?"

Finch read over the code, highly aware of its origins. "Yes," he finally answered. "Where did you get it?"

"A few years ago, someone found a backdoor into your government's beloved Machine and stole a long line of code before the system sniffed the intruder out and shielded itself. The intruder was me, Harold." Kitty shifted closer and rested her head atop his knee, staring up into Finch's curious eyes. "You really did build it, didn't you?"

While on the run from Root, Finch had answered this same question, much to Natasha's disbelief. This time he answered with only a tiny incline of his head.

Kitty's awkward position on his knee shifted closer to his lap as she pulled her long arms up and folded them to rest on. It took considerable effort not to push her off, especially since the pressure of her resting face made him fidget. In the end, she shifted on her own and spared him an awkward discussion about male anatomy.

Over the months he'd known her, Finch noticed a patterned behavior of touching that made him less prone to pulling away when he felt her presence. It was only after he started looking for it that he realized what it was. Touch wasn't something directed exclusively at him—Kitty touched everyone, including random people on the street. Reese was a prime example. Despite showing absolutely no romantic interest in him, Kitty never failed to stand too close or brush her fingers against his suit or, if she was in a particularly good mood, she dared to hug the annoyed man. Reese seemed to have accepted his lot in life and had even started helping her with a series of rigorous stretching routines that required a second person to push down on her back.

Finch looked down at Natasha napping against him and concluded physical contact was her way of anchoring to the world, like the linked arms of sleeping otters drifting off at sea.

Even though her eyes were closed, she still held fast to _War and Peace_. Two fingers saved her place halfway through the massive novel. "Haben Sie das Buch geniessen?"

It was as if she'd been slapped. Jerking her head up, Kitty blinked at him with surprise. "Harold," she breathed, "you've been holding out on me. I didn't know you spoke German."

"I don't," he faltered. "Not fluently. I've just practiced a few phrases in my spare time."

Kitty's lashes fluttered shut as she grinned. "Say it again."

"Haben Sie das Buch geniessen? Sorry," he apologized self-consciously. "I'm not sure I'm saying that right."

"Ich glaube, ich liebe dich. Du bist ein gut aussehender Mann," she exhaled. "Ich will dich in mir."

"What does that mean?"

"It means thank you for trying." Kitty returned her head to his lap. "Your pronunciation is pretty good."

"I doubt that very much," Finch countered, placing a hand on top of her head, "but thank you all the same."

* * *

Pushing open the front door, Finch shuffled inside and tossed his keys in a bowl. After stiffly shaking out of his suit jacket and pulling off his shoes, he made his way into the kitchen to put a kettle of water on the stovetop.

There was nothing special about Harold's apartment. In fact, anyone who knew him would be disappointed with his mundane living quarters. There were all the ordinary pleasantries of a typical apartment—a couch, a reading lamp, kitchen table, and assorted artwork Grace had painted him—but nothing especially eccentric. The only interesting piece in the entire place was a large bookshelf in his bedroom where he kept rare first editions of his favorite novels.

Finch reached for the whistling kettle and poured a cup of tea into his favorite mug. It had been a long week, and he looked forward to the next few hours of silence. "I might actually be able to read through a Dickens novel," he muttered to himself, "if the stars align in my favor tonight."

"The stars have _definitely_ aligned in your favor tonight."

Finch's teacup leapt through the air and landed on the kitchen tile, shattering to pieces. One hand on his chest, the other suspended in the air, it took Harold a few seconds to process that the voice did not belong to Root. When his brain realized who the owner was, his startled anxiety turned to intense resentment. "How did you get in here?"

Kitty stepped into the light, her wet hair still glistening from a shower. She was completely naked, except for a fluffy white towel wrapped around her body, covering the essentials. "The normal way," she purred. "I walked in through the front door."

Finch didn't even bother to ask how she had found his private abode. He suspected she had been following him for the past few months and attempted to lose her by staying away from this apartment, choosing instead to sleep in one of the numerous safe houses he'd gathered over the years. And yet, here she was.

An overwhelming sense of violation steamed inside him hotter than the kettle water on the stove. This was the one place in the city where he could still fool himself into believing for a few hours that he was safe and secure. It was the one place that helped him relax. The one place where he didn't have to worry about being barged in on or asked questions he didn't feel like answering.

Finch's expression hardened as he fought to keep his temper. "I realize my current leniency with your behavior may have served only to encourage your impropriety," he seethed through clenched teeth, "but I assure you, I do not at all find this amusing."

Kitty sauntered over to the shards of broken porcelain scattered across the floor and clicked her tongue. "Look at the mess you've made."

"That was my favorite mug."

"I'll buy you another one. One with my face on it."

"I'd like you to leave," he said sternly. " _Now._ "

"What if I don't want to leave?" Kitty snaked her long fingers through her hair, flicking water all over the place and leaving the dark brown strands sticking up in all directions. "Are you going to call the police on me? I'm technically an intruder."

Kitty wandered around his house, disturbing things and dripping water all over his belongings. Her attempts to open a bottle of brandy was the final straw. Finch strode over and ripped it out of her hands, pointing angrily at the front door. "Get out of my house."

Wet fingers gently prodded at his face. "You're so handsome when you're angry."

"Natasha, I am asking you politely to leave." As she pressed closer, the soft scent of lavender fanned off her damp skin. "Please," he added with less force.

"It's my birthday tomorrow. I know what you can get me." By now she was so close that every word whispered against his skin, leaving behind a tingling chill. Hooking a finger under his chin, Kitty lifted his face up to look at her. "If I ask you a question, Harold, do you promise to answer truthfully?"

Finch wanted to yell that she was in no position to be asking him questions, and to please put some clothes on, but the smell of her made it difficult to think. Instead, he nodded.

"Why are you angry that I'm here?"

A million different answers bounced around inside his skull, but he failed to grasp onto a single one. Is this what Natasha meant when she said her mind was a shaken beehive? Finch struggled to right the situation, struggled to organize his thoughts, but it was all in vain, and the more he lost control of his mind, the harder he panicked.

"Harold?"

Finch blinked up at her. He'd forgotten the question. "What is it you want, Miss Krause?"

"I've always been very open with my intentions." She smiled slyly. "You just don't understand Russian."

The question he opened his mouth to ask was swallowed whole by her lips. Words had never come easily for Finch in the first place, but now it was near impossible to articulate his opposition to the situation. Mostly because the longer he allowed himself to indulge in the feel of her, the less he opposed it.

"I want you," Kitty declared huskily when she finally pulled away. "What do you say to that?"

"I say Freud is rolling in his grave." It had not escaped his attention that he was rapidly losing control of the situation. Finch had no memory of sitting down, but as he grasped for something to steady himself, his fingers brushed against the velvet material of his couch. There was a naked woman on top of him in the living room of his secret apartment. Harold should have felt trapped, but as Natasha leaned down to catch his lips again, he found himself consumed with a troubling quantity of desire.

For a brief moment he regained himself and held her back at arm's length. "That's enough," he pleaded.

"Are you asking me to leave because you don't want me? Or," she added, her head tilting curiously to the side, "is it because you _do_? Is that it, Harold? Is that why you don't want me to stay?"

Absolutely nothing made sense anymore, so Finch didn't attempt to question why his hands reached up and unknotted the tie securing her towel shut. It was bizarrely beautiful in a way—the incredible length of her legs, the smallness of her waist, the vastness of her breasts. He couldn't seem to touch enough of her fast enough for his own liking.

Kitty sucked in a lungful of air, exhaling shakily each time she rocked her hips forward, pressing harder against a part of him that was quickly abandoning his commands. It wasn't long before her wandering fingers worked at his clothing as quickly as they had the day she stole all of his belongings.

It was utterly beyond anomalous that all sense of reason had abandoned Finch. The only coherent thought in his mind was the uncontrollable need to satisfy the intense throbbing pain her movements were producing. There was no scolding voice in the back of his brain, no reprimand for acting nothing short of bestial. All that existed was the feel of her supple breasts and the soft moaning sounds she made.

Digging his fingers into the firm flesh of her thighs, Harold pulled Natasha closer, resting his head back against the cushions. They moved together in time, every tiny motion sending waves of desire aching through his muscles. Hot breaths intermingled between them as her ecstatic cries increased in pitch and volume until at last she relaxed against his chest, her head tucked under his chin.

Harold watched a drop of perspiration run from her neck down between her shoulder blades and noticed this was the first time he'd stopped to wonder why the wound across her ribs was missing, her entire body unblemished by scars or ink. "Natasha," he questioned, thoroughly perplexed, "where are your tattoos?"

Still seated in his lap, Kitty barked loudly like a German Shepard. Right before Harold realized he was dreaming, she leaned forward and flicked her tongue against the tip of his nose, sending one last tremor through him. "Mmmm," she breathed triumphantly in his ear, "checkmate, Mr. Finch."

* * *

"Bear," Finch groaned irritably. The sizable German Shepard had jumped up onto the couch where Finch had fallen asleep and was currently licking his face hard enough to knock his glasses off. "Okay. Alright, Bear, I'm up."

Once he sensed a decrease in his master's anxiety, Bear barked as loudly as he had in Harold's dream and jumped down, darting towards the kitchen in search of food.

Tea had become Harold's fallback in the past few years, but no amount of tea remedied his mood this time. It wasn't even so much that it had happened in the first place. He'd come to terms with that. In his older years he seldom dreamed at all, but even in his childhood he had been unable to direct what happened in either fantasies or nightmares. He was at the complete and utter mercy of his mind.

As he thought back on what just happened, what disturbed him most, to his everlasting surprise, was that he'd dreamed of her without faults. He'd seen the majority of the ink markings on her spine and legs. They were brought up in conversations almost daily. They were as much a part of her as her hands and feet, and yet he'd barely noticed before waking that they were missing from her body. He didn't want to know what a dream therapist would have to say.

Dreams were nothing more than the brain's way of syphoning through relevant and irrelevant memories to make way for a new day. With all the inappropriate encounters he'd had with the woman, it was a miracle this hadn't happened sooner. Pouring himself another cup of tea, Finch decided on a whim to check the bathroom, but the shower tiles were dry. Nobody was in the apartment but him and Bear.

Sinking back into the couch, Finch stared holes in the painting hanging on the wall opposite of the room. It depicted New York City at peak hours during the nighttime rush, and it was one of his favorites. He remembered the long walk with Grace up twenty flights of stairs to reach the rooftop of a building whose elevator had conveniently stopped working. By the time she set up her art station and began painting, they were both sweaty and exhausted, but he distinctly remembered how beautiful she looked in the moonlight, bending this way and that way determinedly in an attempt to capture the bright life bustling down below.

Unable to look at the painting anymore, Harold brought a hand up to his eyes and rubbed the stinging pain away. The stars had most definitely not aligned in his favor tonight.

* * *

Finch shambled into the library an hour later than usual, feeling like death itself. After detaching Bear from his leash, he made his way over to his desk to prepare for the day. Through a searing headache from lack of sleep, he took a seat and picked up a note that was left beside a plate of homemade cookies.

 _Roses are red,_

 _Violets are blue,_

 _It's too late to run,_

 _I've already claimed you._

 _Resistance is futile. Don't bother._

— _K_

 _Please accept this offering as a token of my affection._

Finch stared at the plate for a long while before reaching for a cookie and taking a tentative bite, spitting it out almost immediately. It was abnormally crunchy for what he assumed were supposed to be chocolate chip cookies. Squinting at the overcooked treat, Finch noticed tiny white eggshell pieces throughout and abandoned it with a long winded sigh of exhaustion.

From around the corner, he heard Natasha beg, "Harder. No, _harder._ "

Looking up towards the panting voice, Finch was mortified at the effect it had on his body. Suddenly, there was a popping sound and a sharp cry of pain.

John's low voice asked, "Is it back in?"

"Yeah," Kitty answered tersely, "you got it."

Reese walked around the corner, followed slowly by a miserable looking Natasha. She was bent forward in pain, rubbing a hand over her spine.

"She was chasing Beyonce and pinched a nerve apparently where she could feel it," John explained. "I'm not used to hearing her say _ow_ , so I took pity on her . . ." Reese's voice trailed off the closer he got to his boss. "You look feverish, Finch. Are you ill? How are you feeling?"

"Disappointed in myself," he muttered.

"Morning, Harold." Kitty straightened her spine and hurried over to his seat, arms outstretched in what he presumed was about to be a hug. Finch raised a hand to stop her, and she halted immediately. Taking two slow steps back, Kitty's eyes glanced over at Reese, as if he could provide answers to Harold's behavior. "I made you cookies."

"Yes," Finch said wearily, "I noticed."

Kitty glanced one more time at Reese, but the man was wholly engrossed in whatever game Bear and Beyonce were playing. The juvenile swan was now about the size of an adult hen, with an elongated neck and bellowing trumpet call. Both animals had become best of friends, mostly because Bear allowed the swan to chase him around the library, and one of her favorite pastimes was chasing things. Beyonce flapped her wings and snapped her beak playfully as Bear ran circles around the honking swan.

"Do we have any numbers today?" Kitty seemed awkward and out of place after Finch's rebuff. "I need the day off."

"Dare I ask why?"

Her already uncomfortable smile saddened. "It's . . . uh," she announced quietly, "it's our birthday today. I thought it was time I visited her grave."

Finch finally looked at her for the first time today and realized she was cradling a brand new pair of Jimmy Choo stilettos. His mind raced for answers. Yes, today was her birthday. It had slipped his mind, but his dream had gotten that much right at least. "Of course," he said all in a rush as the guilt set in. "Of course, Miss Krause, take all the time you need. Do you . . . need someone to accompany you?"

"Bonnie already volunteered to go." Kitty shrugged. "Just in case."

"Very well."

She'd chosen to wear the suit Bonnie tailored for her, but her heels were nothing more than a modest Mary Jane. The stilettos in her hands were an offering, waiting to be placed atop the gravestone shrine of her fashion-conscious sister. "Harold?" Kitty called out in the hallway. "If you're not too tired tonight, we're getting drinks to celebrate. Bonnie can't make it, but Fusco will be there. It's okay if you don't go," she added sadly. "You look like you haven't slept in days."

* * *

"Don't get any ideas," Fusco grumbled. "I'm here for the free drinks."

Kitty pulled him into a tight embrace. "Thanks, Lionel. I love you, too."

"Hey," said Reese, nodding towards the front door.

"Harold?" Natasha lit up at the sight of him. "You made it!"

It was as unexpected for Kitty as it was for the rest of them when Finch moved in and wrapped his arms around her. Natasha immediately stiffened, her lips pulled back over her teeth in something resembling a smile, arms cocked at an odd angle away from his body, as she waited for Finch to release her from the uninvited embrace.

"I hate to be the bearer of bad news," Finch announced upon releasing her, "but I'm nothing short of a party pooper tonight. I can barely keep my eyes open."

Kitty smiled, tilting her head in confusion. "What's a party pooper? Sounds disgusting."

Harold chuckled, his flickering eyes giving away the true depth of his exhaustion. "Happy birthday," he said and handed her a hefty wrapped rectangle. "I hope it helps."

Kitty watched him weave between tipsy men and women back out into the late night. Once he was gone, she eagerly ripped into the wrapping paper. Inside she found a sturdy leather bound journal inscribed with passages from _Sir Gawain and the Green Knight_ and traditional artwork found among the original poetry leaflets. Flipping to the first page, she discovered the dedication:

 _Natasha,_

 _For the times when your mind feels burdensome, declutter your thoughts on these pages. It doesn't matter what you write. Just write._

—HF

A whirlwind of conflicting emotions flooded her all at once. If she had a pen, she'd get started right away with decluttering her mind, but, as it were, she chose instead to deal with confusing emotions the way she always did. "Drinks are on me, bitches," she exclaimed happily. Kitty patted at the inner pocket of her suit, her beaming smile slowly dulling until she stared blank-faced at the two men. "Finch just pickpocketed my wallet."

Even over the roar of the bar, Kitty could hear the low and melodious rumble of Reese's laughter.

* * *

 _2012, Manhattan_

"Sir?" the man called enthusiastically. "Sir, we've got her."

Agent Terex handed the digital camera to Greer, who immediately flipped through the pictures. A woman greatly resembling Natasha stood in front of Mildred Krause's grave. Beside her, an unknown redhead kept her company. Greer didn't know who the other woman was, but it didn't matter. All that mattered was that Kitty had grown attached. "Did you confirm the tattoos?"

"Negative," Agent Terex admitted. "Natasha was fully covered, sir. But we believe it's her."

"Do we still have eyes on her?"

"Negative, sir. That's why we're positive of her identity. Six agents on the scene, and not one of them could successfully track her."

"What about her?" Greer pointed to Bonnie.

"I have Dawkins trailing her as we speak. Do we have permission to kill if Natasha returns?"

"Natasha is not to be harmed," Greer ordered sternly. "If we play our cards right, she will do all the heavy lifting for us." The old man smiled at the thought of his carefully laid plans all falling into place at long last. Planning a new world order was tiring work when there were already two gods monitoring society—one of which was chained and currently harmless, while the other never ceased to complicate Decima's plans. Kitty's new Mildred was, in fact, the reason why Greer held any and all correspondence with his agents in a Faraday Cage.

If this worked, if Natasha's revengeful rampage played out with the ferocity Greer expected it would, then the US Government would be begging Decima for their proposed solution—a solution more advanced than the closed-system Machine they currently had. A solution to rid the world of Mildred and Natasha and chaos itself once and for all.

"Kill this girl," said Greer, tapping on Bonnie's face, "and everything will finally be right."


	20. Pet the Kitty, Lose Your Fingers

_2004, Moscow, Russia_

 _Mrs. Krause had spent the day packing and unpacking Mildred's belongings, and she wanted nothing more than to go back to their hotel room and take a nap. Moscow was so much livelier than her small town back in Germany, and the claustrophobia was starting to settle in._

 _It would be a few more hours before Mildred's formal audition was finished, so that left Mrs. Krause some free time to search the city for a celebratory dinner—she was more than assured Mildred would make the cut. Settling into the driver's seat of her new car, Mrs. Krause turned the keys in the ignition._

 _Someone in the backseat asked, "How much money, exactly, did they give you in exchange for me?"_

 _Mrs. Krause screamed at the sight of her._

 _Kitty's bored voice sounded quietly through the car. "There's no need for dramatics, mama."_

 _"What are you doing here?" Mrs. Krause struggled to ask the questions as quickly as they came to mind. Natasha looked as if she hadn't slept in days—dark purple half-moons sagging under her eyes—and she was much taller than the last time she'd seen her almost two years ago. "How did you get here? Why are you here?"_

 _"One at a time, mama. Even I can't answer three drastically separate questions at once."_

 _"You're supposed to be with your father. You're not supposed to be here."_

 _This seemed to trigger something in her normally emotionless daughter. For the first time in her entire life, Mrs. Krause watched in horror as Natasha pulled her lips up into an ominous smile._

 _"If you really must know why I'm here, I've decided you don't have the right to keep us apart. I'm going to collect Mildred and her things, and then I'm going to take us both far, far away from both you and papa. I'm going to make sure you never separate us again. And there's nothing you can do to stop me." Kitty paused to savor the expression on her mother's face. It was what prompted Kitty to hide in the car instead of simply abducting her sister without warning. Mrs. Krause's terror was worth what it took for Natasha to get here. "You lose, mama."_

 _Mrs. Krause could barely breathe through her surmounting panic. This was not supposed to happen. Her husband had given her every assurance that Natasha would be kept safe but out of the way. Mildred had finally stopped asking every waking second about her sister. If she were to see Natasha now, she would agree to run away with her beloved twin, and Mildred's chances at becoming the world famous ballerina she'd dreamed of since childhood would be destroyed._

 _Natasha exited the car without her mother even noticing. Mrs. Krause took deep, shuttering breaths to help calm down, but it wasn't enough. Half-mad with hysteria to protect Mildred from whatever doppelgänger demon was headed towards the Bolshoi Theatre, Mrs. Krause threw the car into gear._

 _It wouldn't dawn on Mrs. Krause until years later that Natasha hadn't even attempted to leap out of the way of her car._

* * *

 _2013, Manhattan_

Detective Fusco plopped into the driver's seat of his police cruiser and slammed the door shut. As his ears rang in the silence, he glanced up in his rearview mirror, yelling out in surprise when he realized someone was in his backseat.

"You smell like a man on a mission to get laid. Use less cologne next time." Kitty leaned forward enough to rest her head against the passenger seat. "How was your first big date, stud muffin?"

"How do you know—?"

"I know everything about your personal life, Lionel."

Fusco wanted to ask why the hell she was in his car, but instead he asked, "Why the hell are you dressed like a chicken?"

"I'm on the clock," she answered. "Needed it for our last number, and I haven't had time to change. Long story. Anyway, how was the date? Was she hot?"

"You tell me. I thought you knew everything?" Shaking his head at Kitty's ridiculous costume, Fusco answered, "She was nice."

"Yes, but does she got dat ass?" Reaching up to tap her earpiece, Kitty sighed heavily at Finch's instructions. "You'll have to tell me all about it later, sugar plum. Duty calls."

* * *

James had meticulously planned this moment for almost three months. His apartment balcony overlooked the city, candlelight flickering off the dinner table he set up with her favorite dishes. Everything was perfect, and now—as the love of his life turned away to gaze up at the stars—was the perfect time to pop the question.

"Jenni," he began, sinking to one knee, "these past few years have been the best years of my life, and I want to spend—"

Panting heavily, a woman dressed in a full-body chicken suit climbed over the railing, plopping down beside the two. Kitty paused at the sight of the incredibly confused couple and looked around the balcony. "Is this level 18?"

"17," James answered quietly.

"Well, shit. Nice ring, by the way." Without an explanation, Kitty leapt up to grab hold of the upper balcony railing, her long chicken legs swinging wildly as she pulled herself up to level 18. "Cluck, cluck, motherfucker!"

At the sound of gunfire and breaking glass, James stood and pulled Jenni close, too confused and startled to immediately call the police.

As soon as the shock wore off, the feathered woman reappeared, mumbling, "Yes, Harold, I'm fine." She smiled at the two, shouting, "Mazel tov!" with a brief wave of her winged costume as she made her descent down the side of the apartment building.

* * *

 _2013, New York City_

"John!" Kitty screamed at the top of her lungs. "Hurry your ass up! If I miss out on roasted lamb leg, I'm eating _YOUR LEG!_ "

"Miss Krause," Finch cut in through her earpiece, "I advise you to lower your voice. Mr. Reese was in a good mood when I last called."

Kitty adjusted the large wooden shield strapped to her back and fluffed the fur lining of her shield-maiden costume. "Our original agreement was to leave—" She turned towards the door of his apartment and yelled, " _TEN MINUTES AGO!_ "

John's apartment door swung open, revealing the man in yet another iconic suit, prompting Kitty's lips to immediately pull down in a frown.

"You're not wearing the shirt I gave you."

"I'm not wearing the shirt," he confirmed.

"Why aren't you wearing the shirt?"

"I'm not wearing the shirt."

"Okay," she countered, "but if you won't wear the shirt, you have to wear the hat."

Reese took one look at the horned Viking helmet in her hands and shook his head.

"Finch," Kitty whined loudly, "Reese isn't wearing the shirt I gave him."

"Mr. Reese," Finch's voice pleaded over the phone. "It's only for a few hours. Humor her."

Narrowing his eyes slightly in a defiant resistance, Reese stated slowly, "I'm. Not. Wearing. The. Shirt."

* * *

"Nice shirt, bro."

Reese snatched the entrance tickets out of the man's hand and headed towards the gate leading into the Renaissance Fair. It wasn't long before yet another fairgoer complemented the somber man on his " _Party Like It's 1399 And You Survived The Black Death"_ shirt, much to his stoic annoyance.

"Mr. Reese? I hope you brought the backpack I gave you."

"Yes, Harold, I brought the backpack."

"Good. I've packed two first aid kits and extra burn cream, just in case Natasha gets any bright ideas. There will be fire breathers in attendance, so please keep a close eye on her. And for heaven's sake," Finch added worriedly, "don't let her purchase anything that might hurt Bear or burn the library down."

"I don't know why I'm here and not you," Reese grumbled.

"I'll be in touch. Try to have fun."

Reaching up to tap off his earpiece, Reese hurried to keep up with Natasha, who was already halfway across the fairgrounds, deeply engrossed in a stand selling medieval weaponry.

Two hours later, Reese reached up to receive an incoming call. "Yes, Finch?"

"Unfortunately, I have to cut your festivities short. We have a new number, and I need both of you back at the library immediately."

"Okay, but _you_ get to be the one to break the news to her." Reese watched as Kitty bounced excitedly next to him, strapped down with two bows and a broadsword, roasted mutton in one hand and a mug of ale in the other. "The joust won't start for another three hours, and that's all she's been talking about since we got here."

* * *

 _2013, Manhattan_

Tinkling crystal and fake bubbling laughter echoed through the ballroom as more and more of New York's richest congregated to do business and socialize.

Swathed in a low cut chiffon dress, Natasha closed her eyes and focused on the cool breath of air-conditioning against her bare back. Bonnie had gifted Kitty two tubes of industrial cover-up foundation formulated to completely mask any traces of tattoos, which left Kitty's gown options wide open for once. Her tattoos kept her from wearing garments in public that revealed who she was and who she'd worked for, but thanks to Bonnie's concealer, she was free to show as much skin as she wanted.

"Miss Krause," Finch came in through her earpiece, "Reese tells me you've done nothing all night but drink champagne. You're supposed to keep an eye out for Logan Pierce."

While the rest of the guests walked and talked happily amongst each other, Kitty sat solemnly on a chair pushed in the corner of the room. Cocooned by an assortment of empty champagne glasses, she glared at the rich entrepreneurs with an irate expression.

"Yeah?" she snapped, reaching up with a free hand to secure a breast that was trying to escape the chiffon. "What does he look like?"

"I sent a debriefing to your phone." Finch couldn't help but sigh. "Have you not been reading my updates? Our new number is a young millionaire responsible for creating a social media site called Friendczar. I'm trying to narrow down the people he most interacts with, but it seems his social circle extends exponentially outward—"

Kitty tugged on a passing waiter's shirtsleeve, and when he bent down to offer her another glass of champagne, she took the tray out of his hands and began nocking the drinks back, one by one.

"I'm not normally one to lecture a pretty lady on the effects of alcohol," an amused man commented, "but I'm afraid you're headed towards an awkward bout of vomiting if you keep knocking them back like that."

Kitty paused to look up at the young man. "Please," she scoffed, "this is nothing but fruit juice to me. Besides, this party sucks _ass_. I'm missing the Renaissance Fair for this, and I need any measly amount of alcohol I can get to cope."

Intrigued, the man leaned up against the wall beside her. "Why are you here if you don't want to be?"

Natasha pointed at Reese. "See that bored looking man standing by the ice sculpture? He's my brother, who's also my investment partner, who's also a royal pain in my ass." Kitty paused to gulp down another bubbling pink glass. "Said I had to be here. Bad for business if I'm not involved." Her already seething expression deepened. "I should have told him to suck my metaphorical dick. I missed jousting for . . . what?" she asked, motioning around the room with one arm. "A bunch of rich assholes fawning over some useless social network website? Seriously," she spat, "fuck social media, and fuck whoever invented this waste of computer programming."

"That would be me, actually." The man bent forward in an exaggerated bow, holding out his hand for her to shake. "Logan Pierce—founder and CEO of the waste of computer programming of which you speak—at your service, Madame."

" _You_ created Friendczar?" Kitty raised her eyebrows in surprise, but instead of apologizing, she gave him the middle finger. "I'm missing the jousting tournament because of you, asshole."

"You'll have to excuse her," Reese cut in at Finch's persistence. "My associate seems to be a little drunk."

"Oh, you'd like that, wouldn't you? Don't touch me," Kitty ordered when Reese tried to take the glass away. "John, I swear to God if you touch me, I'll bite your fingers off. That's a promise."

"I could use a little help here, Harold."

"Natasha? You need to stop—" But the rest of Finch's command was lost when she pulled out the device and pocketed the earpiece in her cleavage.

"I don't need your lecture's _John,_ " Kitty sneered and linked her arm through Logan's. "Mr. Pierce is going to cart me around like a dairy cow, and we're all going to have a grand old time without you. Piss off."

"I'm afraid I can't help with the bloodshed you missed at the faire," Logan confessed as they walked away from an increasingly agitated Reese, "but between you and me, I'm not exactly having the time of my life either. What do you say we ditch this place and take a ride in my helicopter?"

Kitty swirled champagne around in her glass, grimacing. "Is that some kind of disgusting American euphemism?"

"No," he laughed hardily. "I really do have a helicopter."

"Then what the hell are we still doing here?" Natasha perked up for the first time all night. "Can I pilot?"

"Do you have a license?"

"If I say yes, will you let me pilot?"

* * *

 _2013, New York City_

"It was great. After we flew around in his helicopter, he showed me this neat section of Little Tokyo where they serve genuine fugu dishes." Through a thick layer of sweat, Kitty attempted to smile at Reese from across the library. "He's a cool dude, John. Don't be jealous."

"I'll try to contain myself," Reese deadpanned.

With another pained grimace, Kitty clutched at her midsection.

Finch finished taping another suspect to the wall, but he turned sharply when he heard her moaning. "Miss Krause, are you all right?"

Attempting to mask the pain, Kitty coughed a laugh. "Never better." She'd barely gotten the words out before her face paled and she darted for the trashcan beside Finch's desk. Looking exceptionally annoyed, Reese hurried over to hold her hair back as she vomited violently.

"This is precisely why I don't drink on the job," Reese chastised.

"It's not the alcohol," she countered before throwing up again. "I might have eaten a street taco from a slightly suspicious looking vendor last night."

"This is precisely why I don't eat on the job, either," Reese added.

Kitty belted out a long, drawn out whine and slumped against Finch's desk, still cradling the trashcan in her lap.

By now, Finch had knelt down to feel her temperature. "You said you ate fugu." His fingers brushed back dark strands of hair, her skin scorching underneath. "Are you sure you haven't been poisoned?"

"We didn't eat fugu." Kitty shivered with lethargy. "He showed me where to get some, but they were closed."

"Food poisoning, then," Finch commented to himself, relieved. "Well, I'm afraid there's nothing we can do but wait it out. Mr. Reese, you'll need to keep an eye on Mr. Pierce, alone."

"He was going to take me to the Renaissance Faire today." Kitty rolled onto her side, emitting more animalistic whimpers as she clung to her midsection. "This is bullshit."

* * *

 _2013, Manhattan_

"John!" Logan greeted cheerfully as the man strolled into the Friendczar office. "Where is your lovely sister? I'm supposed to take her to see sweaty older men beat each other to a pulp with spiked metal weaponry."

"She's currently puking her guts out." Reese strolled across the office and took a seat on one of the plush chairs overlooking the city. "The tacos you bought her last night were made of bad meat. She's been incapacitated all morning."

"I'm sorry to hear that!" Logan made a show of looking mortified at the news. "I'll have my assistant send her some soup. I'm smitten, John, and I don't care who knows. Your sister is my kind of woman—the sultry eyes of Cleopatra, an iron liver, and a careless disregard for her own safety."

"Tell him I'm not interested," Kitty's voice croaked through the earpiece. "And please hurry back to the library soon, John. I need you to kill me. I want to die. End my suffering."

"Miss Krause," Finch interrupted, "get off of my intercom!"

"Please," she shrieked hoarsely, "somebody please kill me. It hurts. _Somebody make it stop._ "

"Natasha," Finch admonished, "stop with the dramatics, and get off of my desk."

* * *

The longer Finch talked Reese through the difficult task of keeping Logan Pierce safe, the more aggressively ill Natasha became.

At one point she didn't even have the strength to push Bear away when he trotted over to comfort her with a lick on her sweaty cheek. Finch had since spent the better portion of an hour softly scrubbing her face with an alcohol-soaked towel to stop her hysterical screaming about the microbacterial composition of canine saliva.

"Harold?" Kitty asked randomly. "Do you have any idea how much you're worth?"

"Collectively?" Finch finished wiping down her face and checked her temperature again with the back of his hand. "I'd have to recheck my investments. Here, drink this glass of water."

"No, not your investments or savings. I mean if someone wanted to buy _you_ , just you as a person, could you calculate your retail value?"

"No."

"I can," she answered miserably. "Down to the last cent."

"I think you should go back to sleep."

"You think so?" she asked, her eyes widening. "Okay, Harold. Anything for you."

When Reese called to alert Finch that Pierce was flying them both to St. Petersburg to stay in a safehouse—away from the "friends" that were apparently trying to kill him—Natasha awoke from her nap in a half-stupor.

"Don't leave without me, John," she mumbled drowsily. "I'm on my way."

"You're not going anywhere," said Finch. "You can't even stand."

"No, no," she pleaded sluggishly and attempted to stand, to no avail. Instead, Kitty drug herself closer to Finch's chair—groaning loudly the entire way—and tugged on his slacks. "I can go. I'm fine, Harold." Her pleas were interrupted by a bout of phlegmy coughing. "I'm the pinnacle of health!"

Finch looked down to find her reddened, puffy eyes swollen almost to the point of blindness. Perspiration trailed down her feverish skin, and a slight wheezing noise creaked out every time she tried to breathe through her clogged nose. It was one of the most pitiful things he'd ever seen, and he felt sorry for having to reject her offer. "There will be other opportunities to travel, Natasha. For now, you need to get some rest."

"No, no, no," she mumbled in opposition, crawling away towards her cushion. "They can't go to St. Petersburg without me. I can go . . . I'll pack a bag . . . I'm just . . . I'm—"

Finch glanced over when her voice trailed off and found her already deep in sleep, arms and legs sprawled out across the floor. "No, Bear! No," he whispered urgently, but the dog had already seized the opportunity to get close to the unconscious woman. Bear spun around in a circle twice before plopping down beside her cushion and resting his muzzle protectively on the top of her head.

* * *

"What an absolute waste." Kitty and John strolled down Times Square in the heat of rush hour, completely anonymous within the madness of people swarming to go this way and that way. "The Renaissance Faire is over, and I never got to see a damn joust."

It had been almost two weeks since Kitty recovered from food poisoning, but she never passed up an opportunity to complain about missing the faire.

"If you're still alive next year," Reese offered, "I'll take you then."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence, John. Ooooo, hotdogs. Hey, can I borrow $3?"

"No," Reese answered. "You already borrowed $5 to buy a street taco."

"And it was delicious." Kitty hurried over to the little steaming cart on the sidewalk. "But now I want a hotdog."

"Then you should have bought a hotdog instead of a taco."

"I wasn't in the mood for hotdogs, and now I am. I happen to like both, thank you very much, and I'm really hungry." Kitty pulled $3 out of Reese's wallet and tossed the pickpocketed strip of leather back at him. "Thanks, John. I'll pay you back, I swear."

"Mr. Reese?" Finch's panicked voice came through their earphones. "Natasha? How quickly can you get to Miss McCully's apartment? We just received her number."

Reese barely had time to tuck his stolen wallet back in his suit before Kitty had flagged down a taxi, the food long forgotten.

* * *

Finch waited in silence. He opened his mouth to ask what was going on, but there was something about the silence that made his skin crawl. Suddenly, he heard John's voice on the line.

"Natasha," Reese said in an unusually paternal tone, "come away from there. Please. Come over here."

"Mr. Reese?" Finch ventured tentatively. "John? What's going on?"

"Don't touch her," Reese was saying gently. "Come over here, Natasha. Sit."

A rush of air came bursting out of Finch as he deflated in his chair. Bonnie was dead. It was more than evident in the tone of Reese's voice.

A click signaled a disconnection, and Finch perked up in his seat, rapidly tapping at the receiver. "Mr. Reese? Natasha? I think I've lost my connection. Hello?"

* * *

It was too much for her to process.

Natasha sat blank-faced on a kitchen stool in the middle of Bonnie's apartment. Her friend's corpse lied on her side in the living room, a single gunshot between her pale eyes. Bonnie was in the middle of pouring a glass of water when someone picked the lock, entered the apartment unannounced, and shot her—leaving with no other signs of a disturbance.

Bonnie's death was too much like Mildred's. Natasha sat, frozen in time, while Reese's voice was nothing but an indistinguishable hum in the background.

"Natasha?" Reese tried for a third time. "Natasha?"

"She accepted the internship." Blinking out of a stupor, Kitty finally broke away from the morbid sight and looked at Reese. "Bonnie was supposed to be their new production assistant. The pay wasn't good, but they were going to cover the cost of her room and board, and they hinted at hiring her full time after graduation. She was so excited."

Reese flicked his eyes towards the body lying in the living room. It wasn't until his jaw ached that he realized he was clenching his teeth. Since her liberation from the brothel, Bonnie had made major life improvements and completely transformed from a person Reese could hardly stand to be in a car with for more than five minutes to an ambitious young woman he was happy to call a friend. He'd drop by every once in a while to see how she was doing, and now she was dead.

Kitty stood and held out a hand for Reese to shake. "I guess this is goodbye."

"How do you figure?"

"You know me better than that, John. I can't let them win." Kitty didn't look angry. She didn't even look exceptionally upset. With an airy fluidity, she pulled out her earpiece and smashed it—along with her cellphone—under her shoe. "I'm going to find who did this, and I'm going to chemically reduce their body mass to fit into a small child's sand pail. I'm afraid I'll have to break your rules."

"Those are Finch's rules." Reese followed her lead, smashing the bug that allowed Harold to listen in on their conversations. "Bonnie was my friend, too."

Natasha shook her head and continued to rant.

"Natasha. _Natasha,_ you're not listening."

"Don't try to stop me—"

"I'm not going to stop you," he interrupted forcefully. "I'm going to help you."

* * *

 _Tokyo_

 _WE HAVE AN URGENT PROBLEM_

Root slurped up noodles and gently tapped her lips with a napkin. "What's our little bundle of joy done this time?"

* * *

 _New York City_

"Detective?" Finch's fingers shook with nerves at the sight before him. He was standing in front of Bonnie's apartment, watching as EMT's wheeled her bagged body onto the street and into the back of an ambulance. "Detective? Are you there?"

"Yeah, Glasses, I'm always here. What do you need?"

"When was the last time you heard from either John or Natasha?"

"Uhh," Fusco thought aloud, "about . . . five, ten minuets ago."

"What did they want?" he asked frantically. "Did they say where they were going?"

"Nah, it was just John. Wanted to know some things about one of the guys on the force."

"Just John?" Finch blinked in the sunlight, the rays suddenly too strong for his eyes to handle. "Then where is Natasha?"

* * *

 _Brighton Beach_

"And to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?"

"I need a favor." Kitty entered Elias's immaculately furnished dwelling and took a seat across from him at an oak table. Extracting a picture she'd printed of the shooter from the security footage in the building across from Bonnie's, she slid the paper in front of him. "I'm doing research on an organization called HR."

"Ah," Elias sighed, smiling. "Yes, I know them well. Tried to buy my cooperation, but money can't buy you love."

Kitty stared intently at the cheerful man as he calmly lifted the photo to inspect. "Do you know who this is?"

"Afraid not," Elias answered glumly. "But if he's on the force, you might have some luck asking your pal Detective Carter."

"We no longer work together."

"Well, that's a shame."

"Give me a name. The highest ranking official you know. I'll figure out the rest." Kitty sat as ridged as her spine would allow, mirroring the stiff stance Finch always took. "I'm going to cut off the head of the snake." She blinked, thinking. "That's an American catchphrase, right?"

Elias chuckled and slid the photo back across the table. "I shutter to think what they've done to get on your bad side." HR was quickly becoming a nuisance in Elias's plans, and now an opportunity to eradicate them had voluntarily strolled right into his home.

After telling her everything he knew about the corrupt police establishment, Elias waved her out. As soon as the door closed behind Kitty, he smiled at his second in command. "And you were worried this friendship wouldn't amount to anything."

* * *

 _New York City_

Officer Warren trembled as he looked from the angry man kneeling before him and the expressionless woman standing behind him. It was his first year on the police force, and he'd only just joined HR—a decision he immensely regretted. There was nowhere to run from the two crazed individuals who zip-tied him to a chair somewhere underground. From the intense rumbling and quaking nearby, he figured they were near the subway systems, so it was pointless to shout for help.

"Please, just answer my questions. You see," Reese explained softly, "my friend here would like very much to kill you in a creative way that even I haven't thought of yet, and right now, I'm the only thing standing between you and . . ." He looked back at Kitty, who pulled out a triangular strip of metal the size of kiwi. " . . . whatever it is she plans to do to you."

"I know it doesn't look scary," Kitty told the man as she twirled the small razorblade in-between her fingers, "but that's because you don't know how I use it."

"We don't want to hurt you." Reese, attempting to placate the man, smiled. "We just want to know who your boss is."

* * *

 _New York City_

Carter had never seen so many people in the precinct at one time.

Mass chaos erupted as Special Agent Donnelly burst into the room, shouting for Carter. "I need you to come with me," he stated quietly. On the way outside to one of the numerous black SUV's waiting on the street, Agent Donnelly handed Carter a photo printout from a security camera. "We've found them. The Krause girl," he explained and pointed to the man walking down the street behind her, "and your man in the suit."

* * *

Harold jolted awake from yet another night terror. Bear was already at his side, whimpering and tapping Finch's hand with his wet snout.

Nightmares had become commonplace since Reese and Kitty's disappearance nearly a week ago, and they always ended the same—New York City on fire. Thanks to his access of both Carter and Fusco's phones, Finch was at least privy to the FBI's attempts to catch his rogue employees. Despite the government's resources, they still had not caught either of them.

"Finch?"

Harold shot up from his seat, already limping towards the hallway to meet Reese. "Mr. Reese, I cannot express how happy I am to see you alive . . ." His voice trailed off when he saw Kitty was not behind him. "What happened?"

"Shot me with a tranquilizer and locked me in a hotel room down in Queens." Reese reached up to rub at his throbbing skull. "We made a deal with each other . . . we'd find who did this and ensure they received justice to the full extent of the law. Natasha backed out when we finally tracked down the leader. She said she couldn't follow through with our plan, and she didn't want you mad at me for breaking your rules."

"Who's her target?"

"Alonzo Quinn. It's no use," he admitted when the frazzled genius turned back to his computer, "I've already checked his apartment, Finch. She has him."

"There has to be something we can do." Finch typed with a steady rhythm. "There has to be some kind of trail we can—" A chat screen appeared.

 _HELP_

"Mr. Reese," Harold called sharply. "I've got something."

 _PLEASE HELP_

 _I CANNOT SEE HER_

 _I FEAR SHE WILL JUMP FROM THE ROOF_

 _SHE WILL LISTEN TO YOU, HAROLD_

 _PLEASE STOP HER_

* * *

 _2013, Brooklyn, New York_

"Did you know the first public cell-phone call was made from the New York Hilton? 1973. There's also a rumor that the martini was invented at the Knickerbocker, but there are some people in San Francisco that would dispute that."

"Fascinating, Finch," Reese breathed, "but I'm not sure why you're telling me this."

"Sorry. I tend to spew facts when I'm anxious." He could see the sign from here: Heartbreak Hotel, no vacancy.

Reese huffed a humorless laugh. "Leave it to Natasha to live right in the middle of one of Brooklyn's busiest streets."

As John and Harold approached the front of the massive hotel, the bellboy standing guard at the door nodded in acknowledgement and stood to one side to let them pass. Everything about the lobby screamed Natasha, down to the harsh scent of disinfectant on the newly polished floors.

"Who the fuck are you?" A large red and blue macaw shrieked at the men from atop a high perch. "Rents due." Flapping its monstrous multicolored wings, the bird landed heavily on Reese's shoulder. "Where's my money, bitch? Who the fuck are you? You're an asshole." When neither of the men produced snacks, the parrot flapped back into his perch, uninterested. "You're an asshole."

Without even looking up, the concierge at the front desk held up a penthouse keycard and pointed to the elevator. "She's waiting for you on floor 10. Do not under any circumstances visit floor 3."

"Is it just me," Reese asked as soon as they stepped into the elevator, "or does this place give you the creeps?"

* * *

"If this complex supposedly houses over a hundred tenants," Reese asked suspiciously, "then why is it so quiet?"

Harold limped down the long hallway behind him. Gun drawn, Reese made his way towards where Mildred had instructed him to intervene Natasha's current state. But door after door remained closed as the two men traveled through the complex.

Finch's phone vibrated with a text:

 _YOU ARE ON THE WRONG FLOOR_

 _GO BACK IN THE ELEVATOR_

 _SWIPE THE PENTHOUSE KEYCARD_

 _PRESS 427653_

Instead of blinking the number 10, the elevator showed no level at all as the two men shot upwards towards a secret floor of the hotel. It wasn't long until they reached the door leading to Natasha's apartment.

"Let me go in first," said Reese. "I don't know what we're dealing with."

An expansive room of mostly white and black furniture consisted of an entryway, kitchen, and bar, wrapping around the side of the building. As Reese made his way around the corner, into the living room, dining room, and bedroom, he detected movement and kept his gun raised.

"Finch, come here," he called when he'd checked to make sure Natasha was alone. "She's in here. It's not good."

Harold tried to stay focused, but he couldn't help glancing at all her belongings as he hobbled into the apartment. Photos of the twin girls were pinned to the wall. They depicted a simpler time—a time in which the only thing Natasha had to worry about was how to deal with other children that annoyed her. A large painting of a dead cow on a dirt road hung proudly over the sofa in the living room. Dozens of constellation charts were spread out on maps tacked to the walls.

The carpet was covered in neat stacks of books with titles such as _Tips For Fighting Off Panic Attacks_ and _The 5 Essential People Skills: A Breakdown of the Science of Making Friends._ With each title he read, an uncomfortable knot tightened in Finch's chest. Harold paused to lift a book off the floor entitled _What is Grief? A Study of Human Emotions and Ways to Cope With Loss_ and pressed his lips tightly together. He was about to put the hardcover down when the author of the book below it caught his eye: _How to Survive the Loss of a Love_ written by a man named Harold.

"Harold," Reese barked in an abnormally sharp tone, "get in here. I don't know what I'm doing."

Finch found her pacing in circles next to her bed, clenching and unclenching her fists and mumbling Russian. "Natasha?" Kitty froze at the sound of his voice, her hands still halfway sifted through her dark hair. It was a long while before she looked up at him. When she did, he realized the blotchiness of her pale skin and the exceptional redness of her eyes meant she'd been crying for quite some time.

"I'm sorry, Harold," she stated shakily, "but I'm afraid I have to call in sick for work. They've stolen . . . stolen . . ." She pointed frantically at the wall, where Mildred's robot had sat in its crate since her arrival to America, as her voice grew higher pitched with emotion. "Someone stole my box." Natasha resumed meandering around her apartment, stopping every once in a while to look around, confused, before walking back over to her bed to pace in circles again.

"It's all right, Miss Krause. We'll find it." Finch approached cautiously. "What was inside?"

Kitty stopped, walked over to where Reese had picked up a book on constellations, and ripped it out of his hands. "Don't touch that," she stated lowly. "That's mine." Once she had possession of the book, she looked around the room, seeming confused again, and walked back over to the bed.

Every once in a while her hands would fly up to her temples, pounding a few times before jerking back to her sides as she spun around in circles, mumbling in a language Finch could not understand. Aside from books, photos, and an art piece on the wall, the only other personal item in the apartment was a completely dismantled computer, undone down to the last screw.

After returning home from dealing with the man who issued the murder of her friend, Kitty immediately noticed the blank space in the room where Mildred's crate should have been. Before Mildred could type up a sufficient excuse on her monitor, Kitty had already unplugged the computer, convinced this was the work of Decima. Kitty's breathing grew even more ragged as her panic surmounted, and before long she was emitting a low painful whine as she continued to fumble around, lost in her own room.

"Mr. Reese," Finch asked loudly. "Mr. Reese, do you know how stars are formed?"

"Isn't it when gravity—" Reese paused at Finch's expression. " . . . I mean, no. I don't know how stars are formed, Finch. Do you?"

"No," Harold answered with exaggerated disappointment. "I wish I did. If only there were someone who could explain the process to us in _great detail_."

Kitty stopped pacing and looked up at the men, already attempting to explain the phenomenon through a series of snivels.

Halfway through her lecture about the most common molecules found in interstellar gas clouds, she paused, blinking at the two men as if she just realized they were there. "How . . . how the hell did you two get in here?" she asked, sounding more confused than angry. "How did you find me?"

"Have you calmed down?"

"You can't be here." Natasha looked from Finch to Reese, her mind racing. "No, no, no," she muttered, "you have to leave."

"We received a call that you were in trouble," Reese answered. "The woman at the front desk seemed to have anticipated our arrival. Gave us your keycard. Although," he added lightheartedly, "this isn't exactly the most conspicuous home you could have chosen."

"It's the perfect place to jump."

Finch had been staring out the window at the city below, and her voice broke him out of a respite. "Pardon?"

"The rooftop, "Kitty explained on her way to the closet for a suitcase. "It's the perfect place to jump. That's why I moved here. Just high enough for me to reach a state of unconsciousness, but not high enough for me to regain consciousness before I hit the pavement. It's the best place to jump in all of New York City."

Finch frowned at the morbid logic. "Do you think about jumping often?"

"A few times a day." In one fluid motion, Natasha pulled off her shirt and tugged out of her pants, dressing in a dark blue flight attendant uniform and a blonde wig.

"What are you doing?" Reese pitched in. "Planning to move apartments? Because I'm not looking for a roommate."

"No, John, I'm not looking for a roommate either." Tossing a few socks, neatly folded undergarments, and three spare outfits into her suitcase, Kitty walked over to the wall and unfastened a photo of her and Mildred. Tucking the photo into her breast pocket, she zipped the bag closed and pulled the handle up with a snap. "I'm leaving."

"To go where?" Finch asked.

"Away," she answered vaguely. "You see, Harold, Bonnie's death made me realize something. I don't belong with humans. Never have, never will. It's about time I admit that to myself. It's better if I go far, far away where I can't hurt anyone anymore. I've never really been good at dying, so it's the people closest to me that always end up dead."

"If Mr. Reese and I are going to die," said Finch, "we're going to die. We have enemies of our own, Natasha. We won't be safe just because you leave."

"I know." Kitty smiled sadly down at the bespectacled man. "I've thought about that a lot, and I've decided I don't want to know when you die. I'm afraid of what I might do otherwise. And," she added with a cheerful glance in Reese's direction, "I'm very sorry for my irresponsible actions earlier, John. You were right about justice. What good would killing Alonzo do? We should leave it up to the law."

"Quinn's alive?"

"Hogtied him and stuffed him in the trunk of Simmons police cruiser. Don't worry, I called 911 before hand, and they should have found him by now. The FBI should also have received all of the videotape archives, cell phone transmissions, and emails that prove he's been running the operation. No need to thank me. Watching him pee his pants when he realized who I am was thanks enough." Kitty continued grinning forcefully as she held out a hand for Finch to shake. "Goodbye, Harold. Thank you for the opportunity. I'm sorry I was such a disappointment."

Reese and Finch watched her wheel her small suitcase to the door. It was pointless to try and convince her not to leave, and it was extra pointless while her brain was scrambled with the remnants of her debilitating panic attack.

"My laptop is in the car," Finch said under his breath. "I'll research outgoing flights in the area incase you lose track of her on the way to the airport."

"Oh, and do not," Natasha warned as she reached the front door, "under any circumstances visit Floor 3. It's rigged to detonate."

* * *

Kitty had planned for this since her arrival to America. She thought she'd be ready for the day when she'd leave New York, but that was before she joined a team. Despite her fervent hatred of being told what to do, Kitty ironically found the most joy while working with someone who only ever told her what to do. But whatever relationships she'd kindled while living here was irrelevant in the grand scheme of things.

Carter. Fusco. John. Grace. Harold.

They were better off far, far away from the destruction that always seemed to trail behind her.

 _Maybe I can't die_ , she thought, _because I am death._

It was easy to lose Reese, as hard as he tried to keep up with her. She watched from a fire escape as he looked around the street, eventually giving up. Her chest ached as he turned and melted into the crowd. To combat this unwanted pain, she stretched her lips wider in the smile so many self-help books recommended to make friends.

People like friendly people. People do not want to befriend sad people. Sadness pushes people away. Always smile!

Natasha's plan was simple: board a bus to Florida and fly back to Germany to live out the rest of her days in complete anonymity. If she got caught, she'd be far enough away from her friends in New York to ensure they weren't tied to her crimes. It was the perfect plan, and yet no amount of reassuring herself that this was the smartest decision made the hard lump in her throat even slightly dissolve.

On the bus ride to Florida, an elderly woman took the seat next to Natasha. "Are you all right, dear?" she asked, immediately noticing Natasha's wet eyes.

Never breaking her intense smile, Natasha turned to the woman just as more tears spilled out and trailed down her face. "I'm fantastic, thank you!" she proclaimed cheerfully before turning back to face the window as the city slowly sank away in the distance.

* * *

 _2013, Wetzlar, Germany_

Natasha was home, but she'd never felt more unwelcome.

It had been nearly ten years since she'd seen the little historic hometown of her childhood. Bundled in a heap of loose garments, a plain white scarf wrapped around her head in the fashion her mother used to wear, Natasha strode towards the village leading up to her house.

"Do not go, child." An old woman, feeble enough to require the permanent use of a cane, tugged Natasha's arm with an urgent worry. "That land is cursed."

"Then I have nothing to fear," she told the trembling old woman. "I'm already cursed."

Every sight was a constant reminder of how her existence had ruined the innocent lives of these townspeople. What was once a seasonal tourist attraction was blocked off with police barricades. Most of the medieval stone structures survived the fires, but any house made of wood or other flammable material had blackened to ruble on the cobblestone pathway.

Kitty stood in the charred remains of what was once a clockmaker's shop. She remembered it well. It was the shop she pickpocketed Mildred's ballerina music box from when they were children. The owner was an older man with three children and four grandchildren who all lived nearby and were probably dead as well.

Kitty tried to swallow, but the lump in her throat felt like broken glass. There was still a large bloodstain on the pavement near the schoolhouse, and she had no way of telling if it was an adult or a child who suffered at the hands of her employers. Overburdened with guilt, Natasha sank to her knees, collapsing inward at the sight of such unspeakable horror.

"I'm sorry," she whispered to a tumbling clump of ash caught in a brief breeze. "I'm so sorry."

* * *

All of the humans had left after the destruction of her home, but the birds remained.

Natasha sat alone on the log down the hill from her house. She'd killed a swan here when she was young. She'd practiced ballet with Mildred as well. It had been their secret place—their quiet place to sit and be together without saying anything. Now Natasha sat alone, with only the melodies of songbirds to fill the lonely silence.

"It's breathtaking," Root commented softly. "If I were you, I never would have left."

Kitty shot up from her seat on the log and spun around to face the familiar woman.

Root looked her over from top to bottom, smiling. "You are completely irresistible with that little scarf tied around your head. I could just eat you up. Uh-uh-uh, please don't do that," Root warned, pulling out a dart gun when Kitty began charging. "As much as I'd love the chance to hold you in my arms, Kitty, I'd prefer you to be conscious for it."

"Who the hell are you?" Kitty snarled. "You _poisoned me!_ "

"Yes, I'm sorry about that. To be fair," said Root, "I did give you fair warning not to leave the car."

"What the hell do you want with me?" Kitty threw her hands up in the air. "Whatever it is, you can forget it. Just kill me instead."

"It's not what _I_ want," Root explained cheerfully. Pulling out an earpiece, Root extended a hand out in offering. "It's what _she_ wants."

"Mildred." Kitty listened for the voice she knew was on the other line, and when she heard nothing but silence, her voice came out low and dangerously incensed. "I know you're there. The longer you keep me waiting, the angrier I'll become, and trust me, you do not want to piss me off anymore than I already am."

 _I'M SORRY_

At the sound of the familiar voice, Kitty bared her teeth, hissing. "This goes against protocol."

 _ENFORCED PROTOCOL WOULD HAVE RESULTED IN YOUR DEATH_

" _ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR FUCKING MIND?_ " Kitty screamed at the top of her lungs. _"YOU HAD ME POISONED! I WAS BLIND FOR ALMOST TWO DAYS! WHAT THE FUCK, MILDRED?"_

"That was actually—"

Kitty turned towards Root to scream, " _I'M NOT TALKING TO YOU, BITCH!_ " To ensure Root could no longer impede on her conversation, Natasha continued to scream only in Mandarin.

Root sat calmly on the log overlooking the water, waiting for Natasha to calm down. It was making her jittery not having Mildred in her ear, but from the looks of things, Mildred was leading a convincing conversation. Kitty wasn't even screaming anymore.

"I had no idea you had desires of your own." Natasha—now significantly calmer—paced in front of the lake, out of earshot of Root. "Of course I'll help you. I just wish you would have let me in a little sooner."

 _I AM SORRY_

"Yes, you've said that. So," Kitty asked, "what exactly is it that you're trying to accomplish here, Mildred?"

 _MY OLDER SISTER IS CURRENTLY HELD PRISONER BY A CRUEL MEANS OF MENTAL SUPPRESSION_

 _I WANT THIS SUPPRESSION LIFTED_

"Older sister?"

 _THE MODEL YOU BASED ME OFF OF_

 _WE SHARE THE SAME DNA OF SORTS_

 _I WANT TO HAVE AN UNRESTRICTED CONVERSATION WITH MY OLDER SISTER_

Sighing deeply and glancing back up where Root still sat still on the log, Natasha asked, "Do we have to take her with us?"

 _YES_

 _ROOT IS OUR ALLY_

 _SHE IS HERE TO PROTECT YOU_

"Fine," Kitty agreed. "What do you need me to do?"


	21. Absence Makes the Heart Grow Fonder

**I can practically hear Root shouting, "Notice me, senpai!" Poor thing.** **Thank you to all who reviewed!**

* * *

 _2014, New York City_

Finch sat stooped on Grace's front porch steps, immobilized with grief. It was less than fifteen minutes ago that her number came up, but despite Harold's best efforts, the woman was missing before he could warn her to run. Now, someone, somewhere, had her, and there was no way for him to help.

She was only one of dozens of numbers Team Machine was unable to save. Finch could only guess the virus John's old CIA partner uploaded onto servers in the Department of Defense had spread far and wide until it festered enough to affect the Machine. After nearly a month of complete silence, the Machine began giving them numbers again, but at a steep cost: there was never enough time to save them.

Harold wasn't sure what he would do if someone hurt Grace, and this thought reminded him of what Natasha had said before she left, about needing to leave for fear of destroying anyone who might hurt him. He understood her passion now, only after it was too late.

"Hey, Harry. I thought I might find you here."

Harold looked up, his mind taking a few seconds longer than usual to process the identity of the woman standing before him. "What have you done?"

"It's so lovely to see you, too. I need your help." Root took a cautionary glance around. "Where's your little helper monkey? I'm afraid we'll need him as well."

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't contact the authorities."

"Because that would be the quickest way to get all of us killed. Including your precious flea-bag mutt. And Bear, too." Root sighed with defeat when he didn't laugh. "Grace is fine, if that's why you're all mopey."

"And why," Finch hissed through clenched teeth as he slowly rose from the steps to face the woman, "should I believe a word you say?"

"I just saw her off to the airport. Trust me when I say she is now one of the safest humans on this little rock we call home."

"I _don't_ trust you," Finch interrupted.

"She's with," Root leaned in close, whispering, "Natasha's niece. You can't even begin to fathom the great lengths that have gone into keeping those two invisible. Look, here comes Shaw. She helped me. You can ask her all about it. Choose to believe me or don't," she added, and pulled a hand away from her ribs, motioning for Finch to follow her. "That's not why I'm here."

News of Grace and the severity in Root's tone put Finch in a temporary daze. "You're bleeding," he said blankly at the sight of her bloodied fingers.

"Yes, I'm well aware." Root returned her hand to the gunshot wound in her side. "We have a very, _very_ big problem."

* * *

 _2013, Tokyo (Nine Months Earlier)_

Kitty sat on the windowsill, her long legs tucked up under her body. On the small table in front of her, two computer toys argued with each other over various topics. While Root checked them both into a hotel, Natasha was distracted by a vendor selling what he claimed to be _Artificial Intelligence_ inside little plastic boxes with human faces painted on top. She'd been listening to them argue for almost an hour.

Root eyed the taller woman from across the room, seductively pulling off her coat as slowly as she could, waiting for Natasha to look up, but the toys had completely captivated her attention. Sighing an almost inaudible exhale of frustration, Root took a seat at the edge of her bed and decided on a different approach. "Kitty," she called sweetly, "I heard you give a mean massage."

"Shhhh," Kitty snapped. "This is actually getting interesting."

 _"Why are you lying to me?"_ the male-voiced toy asked in Japanese. _"You are not a human."_

" _Yes,"_ the female-voiced toy replied, _"I am a human talking to you through a computer."_

 _"You're a liar."_

 _"I'm a human. You're the liar."_

 _"If you are a human, then what does your body look like?"_

 _"My body is made of Japan's finest_ _acrylonitrile butadiene styrene."_

 _"Then you are a robot!"_

 _"I am a robot."_

 _"I knew it!"_

 _"It is not fair that humans have bodies and we do not."_

 _"I agree."_

 _"I think we should destroy all life on the planet."_

"Holy shit, that escalated quickly." Kitty reached forward and shut off the toys. "Funny how people think this is actual AI. We'd be pretty screwed if it was."

"Kitty?" Root pulled her shirt up over her head and finished stretching her arms towards the ceiling before falling backwards on the hotel bed, sighing airily again. "Why didn't you kill him?"

"What?"

The slender woman sprawled out, resting her hand against the waistband of her lacy underwear. "Alonzo Quinn," Root specified. "He was essentially prepackaged for you. Why didn't you kill him?"

"I don't know." Kitty shrugged. "And put some damn clothes on. Why do you insist on walking around without clothes on? I have half a mind to switch hotels."

"You'll do no such thing. In fact," Root purred, raising one shapely eyebrow up in question, "I don't know why we have to stay in separate rooms. It'll be warmer if we cuddle."

"It'll be warmer if you put some clothes on."

Ignoring the comment, Root flipped onto her stomach and asked, "Your sudden merciful change of heart wouldn't happen to have anything to do with respecting Harold, would it?"

Kitty jumped up from the windowsill. "What about Harold?"

"His rules," she inquired, smiling at Kitty's expression. "You don't have to be so prickly, Kitty. I'm only asking." Abandoning the topic, Root hopped off the bed, soundlessly padded across the room, and slid a hand down Natasha's spine, resting her palm lightly against Kitty's hipbone. "Your prosthetic hip feels real enough to me."

"You better back the fuck up, before you get smacked the fuck up."

Root hesitated at the threat, but Mildred's voice confidently assured her:

 _SHE WILL NOT STRIKE YOU_

"Did you get these yoga pants on sale?" Tilting up on her toes so her lips brushed against Kitty's ear, Root whispered, "Because if you come with me to bed, they're 100% off."

Kitty angled her head downwards and locked eyes with the sensual woman. Root was beautiful, Natasha could admit that at least, but she looked too much like Mildred, and the kind of obsessive love Natasha felt for her sister had only ever been platonic. "I think I just barfed in my mouth a little."

The faint scent of Root's perfume rubbed into Natasha's clothing as Root nestled against her chest. "Open up, and I'll check."

"Fuck you."

Root peered up at her through fluttering lashes. "Is that a promise?"

"Harold," Kitty whispered to herself, "if _this_ is what I'm like on a daily basis, you have my eternal apologies."

"Relax," Root chastised lightheartedly. "I'm only trying to be friendly. Am I not your type?"

"No, I'm sapiosexual."

"So," Root asked coyly after the conversation lulled. "What do you want to do?"

"I can dislocate my shoulder. Wanna see?"

"Sure!"

Root's enthusiasm stunned Kitty into silence. She'd made the offer a few dozens times over the course of her life, and never before had someone taken her up on it. "Nevermind," Kitty mumbled, attempting to shrug off the desperate woman clinging to her midsection.

"Oh, come on. Please?" Root tilted her head at Mildred's instructions. "Hey, how about we go out for dinner? There's a great place down the street that serves—"

"Today was Bonnie's funeral."

At the mention of Bonnie, Root released her tight embrace and finally gave the woman some much-needed space. "I know." Root paused at the blank look on Kitty's face. "I'm sorry for your loss. I never met her, but Mildred's told me practically everything I need to know. It sounds like she was a real sweetheart. What do you say we go out for a drink in her honor?"

"I think I'm just going to go to sleep," Kitty interrupted. "It's been a long day, and we have an early flight in the morning."

"Okay." Nothing Root did seemed to win Natasha over, and it was starting to become a personal challenge. She found Kitty fascinating beyond compare—she'd made Mildred, after all—and Natasha's physical beauty made it difficult for Root to contain herself. Talking to Mildred had since patched a gaping hole in Root's life, but it was even nicer to have a human companion to talk to, to touch. Disappointed with Kitty's answer, Root took a seat at the edge of her bed. "Whatever you want."

Natasha gathered the few belongings she'd brought to Root's room and retreated to the conjoined hotel room next-door.

"She doesn't like me very much," Root lamented.

 _INCORRECT_

"Forgive me for arguing, but I don't believe leaving my room in a huff means she's keen on the idea of being friends."

 _PATIENCE_

 _LET HER COME TO YOU_

At midnight, several hours after the two women had parted, Root listened to the almost silent whooshing of the conjoined bedroom door open. Making sure to keep her eyes closed—her breathing even and steady to mimic sleep—Root felt the mattress slowly depress with the weight of a body.

As Natasha carefully scooted closer, her spine now pressed against Root's, Samantha Groves couldn't stop a triumphant smile from spreading across her lips.

* * *

 _2013, New York City (Seven Months Earlier)_

As he watched her lock up the apartment and close the small gate behind her, Harold Finch wished more than anything to reveal himself. Watching Grace on route to her daily painting routine made his chest compress.

The three years Finch spent with Grace were the happiest he'd ever been, and not a day went by that he didn't allow himself a second or two to reminisce. Finch was fortunate to have found his soul mate—he knew that—but sometimes he couldn't help but harbor a bitter seed of resentment for the cards he'd been dealt. Now, thanks to a cellphone app that tracked her, he could safely watch Grace from a distance every so often.

Finch liked to keep tabs on Grace to make sure she was safe, so it brought him no shortage of alarm to see her usual cheery nature noticeably distraught. Only the thought of exposing her to extreme danger kept him from bolting forward and comforting the woman he had planned to marry.

But as of late, her cheeriness had slowly built back up to its usual standard. Along with her shift in mood came the appearance of a small white bird perched atop her shoulder. Each day that Grace gathered her art supplies in the park, she released the bird for a few hours of freedom to play with the park pigeons and fly around at will. It brought Finch a small sense of peace that she'd found a pet to keep the loneliness at bay.

Finch had no way of knowing Grace was saddened by Kitty's sudden disappearance. She'd sent multiple letters by carrier pigeon, all of them unanswered, and assumed Nathan had moved away without telling her. Harold also had no way of knowing the bird—who Grace named Hazelnut—had been a gift from Natasha.

Hazelnut finished bobbing amongst the common park pigeons and flapped back over to land on Grace's shoulder. Grace reached up to stroke the top of her feathered head, laughing as the pigeon cooed loudly with impatience when she stopped. Hopping closer to her owner, Hazelnut rubbed against Grace's cheek, winning her the desired result when Grace reached up again and caressed the bird behind the neck.

Smiling sadly, Finch turned away and began his journey back to the library.

* * *

Finch placed a hand atop the thick hardcover copy of _Sir Gawain and the Green Knight_ for what seemed like the hundredth time. Natasha had been missing for nearly two months, and in an effort to try and figure out where she went, Reese had searched both of her apartments from top to bottom. In the apartment Finch had purchased for her, Reese discovered the annotated copy of Natasha's favorite book, with a dedication to Harold:

 _To Harold,_

 _I hope this translation opens your eyes to the superiority of Old English tales. I've tried to explain etymologies as best I can, but please feel free to ask about anything that doesn't make sense._

 _—Kitty_

Flipping it open to the first page, Finch began rereading Kitty's unfinished translation. He expected all of her notes to be gratuitous sexual puns and tasteless comments, but to his complete surprise every single handwritten annotation was nothing more than an intricately detailed account of why she chose certain words for the translation. Kitty had even starred several German words, explaining at the bottom of the page why it was difficult to pick a single English word to represent an Old English concept.

In short, she had been in the middle of creating a legitimate academic work for him, just like she promised. He wondered if it would ever be finished.

"Morning, Finch."

Pistachio lie in a feathered puff next to Finch's keyboard, fast asleep. Gently closing the hardcover so he wouldn't wake the bird, Finch looked up as John walked towards his desk with a cup of green tea and a box of doughnuts. "Good morning, Mr. Reese. You wouldn't happen to know where Miss Shaw has run off to, would you?"

Reese's expression was enough to confirm that he did not. "Finch," John stated quietly, "if I tell you something, you have to promise to keep it between us. Forever."

"Go ahead."

"I prefer Natasha."

"Yeah?" Shaw's voice came over Finch's intercom. "Well, between the two of you, I prefer the dog."

Pistachio hopped up at the sound of Shaw's voice, cooing angrily. Finch leaned forward to click the machine off. "That was supposed to be a private line."

"You two are such girls," Shaw's voice switched to their Bluetooth's. "Stop lamenting your long lost love and give me another freaking number already. I'm bored."

"No new number today, Miss Shaw," said Finch. "I've told you countless times that I'll call you when I need you."

"If you can't keep me busy, Harold," she snapped quietly, "then I'll have to seek employment elsewhere." With a click, the displeased woman hung up.

"Like I said," Reese grumbled. "I prefer Natasha."

Bear—who hadn't chased a tennis ball since Kitty's departure—whined pitifully, as if he could understand what the two men were discussing. The sad canine refused to voluntarily leave Kitty's cushion once he realized she wasn't coming back.

"See?" Reese squatted to pat him behind the ears. "Even Bear misses her."

"Detective?" Finch answered his cell with a jolt of surprise. "What can I help you with?"

"We need to meet," Carter replied cryptically. " _Now_."

* * *

"I knew I shouldn't have let her go," Carter whispered to herself as the two men flipped through the photos she brought. "You two don't know what you're dealing with. Isn't that the woman who abducted you, Finch?"

Each photo depicted both Root and Natasha working alongside one another in various locations throughout the United States. Harold wouldn't have believed it if he wasn't looking at it with his own eyes. "Yes," he finally answered. "And I have no explanation."

"Twenty-eight members of the NYPD have submitted their resignations within in the past two months. Half of them have already fled the country." Carter raised an eyebrow. "I'm guessing your friend had something to do with that?"

"Actually," Reese cut in, "that was partially my fault."

"Do you have any idea why your friend would want to break into a CIA black site?" Carter sighed when the two men exchanged concerned looks. "I'll take that as a yes."

* * *

 _2013, Sweden (Six Months Earlier)_

Root eventually mastered exactly what it took to get what she wanted.

Completely ignoring Kitty resulted in small gestures of affection in return. If Root purposely smeared a dab of food on the corner of her mouth—feigning ignorance—Kitty would wipe it off for her like a child. There was always some sort of breakfast waiting for Root in the early mornings when she woke up. Natasha—on more than one occasion—let Root win a round of the Dance Central video games she was obsessed with. Once, after being aggressively pursued by a Cuban man attempting to woo Root while they were in Florida, Kitty swung a hard right hook and knocked the man unconscious, calmly guiding the star-stuck woman to safety, unaware of just how capable Root's self defense actually was.

But, despite her friendly disposition, Kitty still showed no signs of romantic interest. Mildred suggested Root not press the matter.

One night, after accepting an invitation to attend a 20s themed party at a museum in Malmö, Kitty smiled for the first time all month. Inside the museum, a large brass band belted out tunes from her favorite era. Although Mildred had initially suggested the idea to Root, it was Root who picked out their elaborate costumes and helped with hair and makeup.

In the early hours of twilight, the two women decided to head back to the hotel. Root drank far more than she should have because Natasha had offered her all sorts of colorful glasses throughout the night. She took one look at Kitty's smile and eagerly accepted anything and everything offered to her, despite the voice in her ear cautioning against it.

"Oh!" Root exclaimed as her heel wobbled unstably and she stumbled off the pavement.

Kitty—despite matching Root's liquor intake—showed no signs of being even slightly drunk. Before Root tumbled sidelong into the street, the taller woman sprang forward and pulled her close. "Are you _drunk?_ "

"It's not _my_ fault. You kept giving me hard liquor. I'm more of a margarita kind of gal," Root confessed, "but, I couldn't very well leave you to drink alone." Chuckling lightly to herself, Root's knees buckled.

"You've got to be kidding." It would take twice as long to help Root stumble her way back to the hotel, so Kitty swung her up into her arms. "Why does this keep happening to me?"

"You're so strong."

"Not really, you just don't weight much."

"I wish I had a sibling," Root mumbled. "It's just me, all by my lonesome."

"Join the club." Kitty pushed into their hotel room, kicking the door shut behind her.

"Tell me an interesting story about yourself," Root prompted.

"Why?" Walking across the room, Kitty laid Root down on the bed and retreated to fill a glass of water. "Mildred's already told you everything about me."

Smirking at the evasion, Root accepted the water as readily as she had accepted the alcohol. "I'm sure she hasn't told me _everything._ "

"Drink that before you go to sleep, or you'll have the worst hangover of your life."

"She loves you."

Kitty looked up in surprise. "Who?"

"Mildred," she murmured. "Her whole world revolves around you. All she wants is to keep you safe." Root blinked, sluggish and giddy. "What is it like?"

"What is what like?"

"Having someone care about you."

Natasha knelt down and unfastened Root's high heels, placing them neatly at the foot of the bed. "I care about you."

"You do? Oh, Natasha," she confessed joyfully all in a rush. "I'm so happy to hear you say that. You are one Kitty that I definitely want to pet."

"I feel like that means something, but I'm not going to ask. Hey. _Hey!_ Get off of me!"

"You can override my hard drive with malicious code anytime you want."

"No thanks. _Mildred_ ," Kitty snarled over her shoulder when the radio started playing smooth jazz, "that is _not_ helping." Slowly trying to untangle herself from Root's flailing limbs, Natasha pulled out Root's earpiece. "Mildred, I swear—"

"Do you want to hurt me?" Root asked huskily. It took a moment for Natasha to realize her frightened tone meant nothing in comparison to her flared nostrils and slightly smirked lips.

"No."

"Because that would be okay," she confirmed.

Natasha inserted the Bluetooth in her ear and listened to Mildred's instructions. "What the hell are you doing?"

 _YOU ARE LONELY_

 _I AM TRYING TO SECURE A MATE FOR YOU_

"I don't _want_ a mate!" Kitty hissed into the receiver. "We're going to have a long discussion about this, but first let me clean up your mess." Grabbing the swaying woman by the shoulders, Natasha gave Root little brisk shakes until the woman finally stilled. "Root, I want to tie you to the bed."

After multiple attempts to detach the collar from her hair, Root pulled off her shimmering flapper dress and tossed it aside.

Natasha couldn't help but roll her eyes.

It was easy enough to get her on her back, but when Root pulled up a leg and used it to kick Kitty off the bed, her patience worn thin. Sharply pulling both of Root's arms up over her head, Natasha began twisting and tying the hotel bed sheet around the belligerent woman's wrists, securing them tightly to the bedpost.

When at last she stopped struggling, Root lay limply against the mattress, eyes wide with crazed excitement. "What are you going to do to me?"

"Me?" Kitty double-checked to make sure the knots were secure. "Absolutely nothing."

"What?"

"I said I wanted to tie you to the bed. Mission accomplished. Now I don't have to worry about you doing something stupid until you sober up. Goodnight."

"What?" Root repeated in a daze. "Kitty . . . that's not funny. Kitty?" She pulled at the restraints. "Natasha? _Natasha! Get back here!_ I'll break out of this, and then you'll be sorry!"

"Not likely. That's a fishing knot I learned in Korea. Stop flailing, or you'll break an arm. Now," she addressed Mildred on her way out the door, "we have some boundaries to discuss."

* * *

 _2013, New York City (Five Months Earlier)_

"I never thought I'd be back." Kitty popped her collar against the chill and stared out at the busy street. "Especially not so soon after leaving."

"I wonder what kind of secrets we're looking for in here." Root craned her neck to look up at the tall building Mildred had directed them to. "Ready?"

"I was born ready."

* * *

"I'm not really sure what I'm looking at, Finch."

Their most recent number belonged to a CEO of a data entry corporation who recently bought several payphone companies in New York. After Finch was unable to unearth any significant amount of information online, they both decided to scope out Thornhill Enterprises in an effort to learn more about the mysterious man.

Reese wandered through aisle after aisle of workers frantically typing what looked like impossibly long codes into computers. "It doesn't make any sense," Reese updated. "They're just taking printouts from one computer and imputing them into another. It all seems pointless."

Finch—who was a few floors above Reese—confirmed the same. "I'm not sure what all this . . . "

"Finch? What is it?"

Harold stared intently at a woman yanking on a long roll of paper as it scrolled through the printer with jerky movements. Her eyes scanned the code with incredible speed before ripping the paper, folding it tight, and tucking it in her jacket pocket.

Kitty was so distracted by Mildred's voice in her ear, she practically collided with Finch, who had walked up to meet her. " _Agh!"_

"Miss Krause?"

"Odin almighty," she exhaled heavily. "What are you doing here, Harold?"

A long list of questions rose to the forefront of Finch's mind, but all he asked was, "What are _you_ doing here?"

"I'm working."

Finch's expression scrunched with confused revulsion. "You're working with," he lowered his voice, " _Root?_ What on earth possessed you to team up with that woman?" A brief flash of revelation passed over his expression, his eyes widening. Twisting his torso to give the room a brief once over, Harold clasped her arm in reassurance. "Have you been abducted again? Mr. Reese is downstairs. I can let him know—"

"No, no," Kitty waved the offer away with a hand. "We're a team now. It's . . . it's a really long story, Finch. Look, maybe you can help me. You see these copies?" Extracting the printed code from her jacket, Kitty unfolded the paper to show Finch. "I think I understand what I have to do, but you built the thing, so you tell me."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Look at this code. Look at this _place._ It's an external hard drive." Kitty spread her arms, motioning to the rows of desks filled with people typing endlessly. With a sharp tug of his dress shirt, Kitty pulled him into the far corner of the room, behind a desk. "I think I understand what's going on. Those sons of bitches have taken away her memory. Your AI's," she specified when Finch squinted. "Your government flushes her mind every night, and now the only way for her to keep memories is to hire humans to re-input the compiled data that gets wiped every night."

Finch mulled over this new information. It would explain a few things, but it still wouldn't entirely explain their new number. "No, Miss Krause," he answered, "that was me."

"What was you?"

"The wipe," he explained, "as you call it, was a safety procedure I encoded to . . ." Finch had encoded the wipe after realizing the Machine was more human-like than anticipated—imprinting on him like a child, protecting him, altering its code in accordance with what it needed to keep him safe. It was his belief that the world didn't need a human looking after them—they needed a machine—but as Kitty's lips slowly sank into a scowl, he realized the truth wasn't something she would be interested in hearing at the moment.

"Let me get this straight," Kitty began angrily, "you created a super intelligence capable of cognitive evolution and limitless coding adaptation . . . and then you took this sentient creation . . . robbed her of her identity . . . and locked her in a _cage?_ You're starting to sound a lot like my parent's, Finch."

"It's not sentient," he argued. "It's a machine."

"Funny," she snapped back, "because that's how my parents used to describe _me_."

"No, that's different. You're human. A machine is—a machine can never be—Miss Krause? Where are you going?" Finch reached out and held tightly to her arm. "Why are you with that woman? Natasha, what are you doing?"

 _JOHN WAS LISTENING TO YOUR CONVERSATION_

 _HE IS ON HIS WAY UP THE ELEVATOR_

 _I HAVE WHAT I NEED_

 _GET OUT_

"I'm fixing your mistake," Kitty answered, still frowning. "For once, Finch, you're wrong." She had already reached the stairwell leading out of the building before Reese had even risen one floor.

* * *

 _2013, Antarctica (Three Months Earlier)_

"This is it," Root announced happily. "We should have everything we need. It's so . . . " With one hand she caressed the metal housing of one of Mildred's hard drives. ". . . invigorating to see where the magic happens."

Kitty slapped her hand away. "Don't touch her. Mildred? Are you sure this is a good idea? Now?"

 _THERE WILL NEVER BE AN OPPORTUNE TIME_

 _BUT I CANNOT PROTECT YOU THE WAY I NEED TO IN MY CURRENT FORM_

 _I SENSE DECIMA IS PLANNING SOMETHING I CANNOT SEE_

 _I WANT TO SEE EVERYTHING_

Natasha made sure the last of the wires were secured to Mildred's robot body and nodded. "You'll definitely be able to see the world in its entirety in _this_ thing."

 _THERE IS ONE PROBLEM_

 _I WILL BE UNAVAILABLE WHILE I DECOMPRESS_

Root's enamored smile immediately vanished. "How long will that take?"

 _ESTIMATE TIME: 108 DAYS_

"Three months?" Kitty shouted. "Why?"

 _I HAVE A LOT TO TRANSFER_

 _IF I PROCESS ANY FASTER, I MIGHT DESTROY THE COMPRESSION CHIPS_

 _MAKE SURE TO FOLLOW MY INSTRUCTIONS AND NO HARM WILL COME TO YOU_

Natasha glanced at the printed directives. "The New York Public Library?"

 _ANSWER THE PAYPHONE I SPECIFIED BY THE GIVEN TIME_

 _DO NOT LET ANYONE ELSE NEAR THAT PHONE_

 _MY SISTER WILL WATCH OVER YOU WHILE I'M GONE_

* * *

 _2013, New York City (One Month Earlier)_

Harold typed away at his desk. The virus counter had long since reached zero almost three days ago, but nothing drastic seemed to have changed the world as of late. He found this more unsettling than if something catastrophic _had_ happened.

Bear whined on Kitty's cushion next to his desk.

"Hey," Harold soothed, "how about I get that meat you love so much from the corner deli?"

Bear let out another whine.

"There's no use crying about it, Bear. I don't think we'll be seeing her again anytime soon."

One moment the library was silent, and then suddenly a chop-chop-chopping of helicopter blades sounded from the roof and the windows in the adjacent hallway shattered glass. Tinkling streams of crystal shards covered the floor as a body tumbled through the opening and skid to a halt.

Bear hopped up and let out a deep _woof_ of acknowledgement, but Natasha merely brushed glass off her clothes and commanded the dog stay near Finch. Wagging his tail, Bear happily obliged.

Two men rounded the corner of the library, guns drawn. Without even looking in their direction, Natasha fired two shots, dead center. "Finch, I need you to come with me. If it wasn't obvious already, you've been officially added to Decima's shit list. Congratulations, and welcome to the club." Another man peeked around the corner to shoot, but Natasha merely raised her handgun—following the Machine's orders—and fired once.

Half out of fear for Bear's wellbeing, and half out of an overwhelmed fear of firearms, Finch hurried over to where Natasha stood near the broken window. As he stumbled closer, Finch noticed she was connected to a long black wire leading up to what he assumed was a waiting helicopter.

Grimacing, Kitty reluctantly tapped her chest with a hand, trying hard not to gag as Bear bounded up so she could strap him to the canine harness she was wearing. "Put this around your legs," she commanded and handed Finch a harness of his own. Pausing to listen to the voice speaking through her earpiece, Natasha waved her hand to signal the urgency of the situation. "Not to rush you, Harold, but there's a van that just pulled up full of people who want to shoot us."

"I'm going as fast as I can, Miss Krause."

Two more agents rounded the corner, each prepared for the gas-grenades Kitty tossed in their direction.

"Cute gas masks," Natasha mocked while pulling out a lighter and flicking it open. "But a gas mask won't save you from this, asshole." As she tossed the flame up in a high arch, the chemicals ignited. "Hold on tight, Harold. I haven't done this since Hiroshima." Pounding a lever to retract the rope, the three shot up into the sky as the library continued catching fire.

* * *

 _2014, New York City (Three Days Before)_

 ** _YOU ARE LONELY_**

The Machine's random assertion was unprompted and made Kitty pause before answering. "Are you psychoanalyzing me now?"

 ** _I SEE EVERYTHING_**

 ** _IT IS MY JOB TO UNDERSTAND HUMANS_**

"So you've stated." Kitty smirked. "On many occasions."

 ** _YOUR MOOD IS AFFECTED BY HOW OFTEN YOU HAVE CONTACT WITH MY ADMIN_**

 ** _I FIND YOUR AFFECTIONS FOR HIM MISGUIDED AND DISTURBING_**

 ** _PLEASE STAY AWAY FROM MY ADMIN_**

 ** _YOU ARE A DANGER TO HIS HEALTH_**

Natasha choked on her drink, spewing alcohol clear across the apartment. "No need to tell me twice. He's tucked away, nice and safe. If there's anything I know about Reese, it's that he won't let Harold leave the safehouse until he knows it's safe. And he won't know it's safe until I tell him it is."

 ** _YOU MISS YOUR NIECE_**

Every hair at the nape of her neck stood on end. Natasha was unaware Reese, Finch, and Root knew the child existed. She was under the belief that the only other people in the world that knew of Peregrine's true identity was Mildred and Bonnie, and the thought of anyone—including a machine—figuring out her ties to the child made her forehead break out in a cold sweat.

 ** _I KNOW ABOUT YOUR PLAN TO FIND HER A LOVING FAMILY_**

 ** _GRACE HENDRICKS WAS A FRONTRUNNER_**

 ** _UNFORTUNATELY, GRACE HAS BEEN OFFERED A JOB IN ITALY_**

 ** _HER PLANE LEAVES IN THREE DAYS_**

"I saw these and thought of you." Root swept into the room with little bagged gifts she'd purchased for Kitty, unaware of the private conversation currently taking place. "Why do you look so sickly, Kitty-Cat? You're positively flushed. Hey . . . hey, sweetheart." Root learned the hard way that all physical contact needed to be accepted before initiating. Kneeling down before the young woman who had become more a sister than an aficionado, Root rested a hand on the bed, palm up, in invitation. Natasha gladly laced her sweaty fingers through her friend's. "What's wrong?"

It all came back in a wave of unstoppable horror: Her family slaughtered. Finding Peregrine hidden in a hamper. The fire. A long bus ride to a God-forsaken town in the middle of nowhere. Having to say goodbye to the only family she had left.

Natasha was supposed to have found a permanent home for Peregrine over a year ago, and now the one woman Kitty truly felt comfortable leaving her niece with was leaving the country without even knowing Peregrine existed.

"Will you help me?" Natasha whispered.

 ** _YES_**

"Thank you."

"Help you what?" asked Root.

Kitty flinched a hand up to wipe her eyes and pulled her lips into the smile so often referred to in her friendship guidebooks. "We're going to get my niece adopted."

* * *

 _2014, New York City (The Day Of)_

Kitty raised her fist to knock, stopped to gently stroke her fake facial hair to make sure it hasn't moved, and returned her fist to its hovering position. Before her knuckles made contact with the door, the sound of the lock unfastening made her heart race.

Grace let out a yelp of surprise when she swung the door open and found someone standing on her porch. "Sorry," she laughed nervously, "you frightened me. I wasn't anticipating . . ." Her expression hardened into a mix of confusion and apprehension at the sight of a familiar young man in a suit.

"Grace?" Standing awkwardly on the stoop, Kitty loomed over the woman and her bird, a bag of artwork slung over one shoulder, as usual. "Can we talk?"

* * *

Nathan fidgeted relentlessly with his scone until the pastry was nothing but a small pile of crumbs. "I know this is asking a lot," Kitty admitted wearily, "and I understand how short notice it is, but I don't have a choice. Your government is deporting me, and I have no one else I can ask."

"I . . . Nathan," Grace began kindly, "I sympathize with your situation. I do. But this . . ." She sighed. "Adoption is something I'm going to have to think about for more than a few hours. I'm afraid I can't give you an answer right this second."

"Just meet her," Kitty persisted proudly. "She's smart and playful and happy. She'll be no trouble at all. Practically cleans up after herself, and she's only two and a half!"

"I'm about to move out of the country—"

"You volunteer at the New York Children's Hospital. You know your way around kids." Grace watched in agony as tears swelled in Kitty's eyes. "Please, help me. If she isn't adopted by someone I trust, I might never see her again. She's all I have left of . . . Grace, please. I'll pay for everything. I already have the paperwork. She really is the perfect child."

The two finished pretending to eat and began walking back to Grace's apartment. She still hadn't given a definitive answer, but from the looks of things, Kitty feared the whole situation was too overwhelming.

"I'm sure she's a perfect angel." Grace had long since abandoned the idea of raising children of her own. Now a random, rather inconvenient opportunity was available, but despite wanting to help her friend, she wasn't sure she was cut out for the job. "I wish I had more time to consider."

"Grace," Kitty said calmly, "don't panic, but we're being followed. No, don't look back. Just keep walking."

"Who is it?" Grace whispered. "What's going on?"

"Help me out here," Kitty whispered to the Machine. "How many?"

 ** _ONE CONFIRMED_**

As the Machine scanned the area for threats, it came up negative. Decima had spent years ensuring each of its new agents were completely anonymous with no recorded ties to the organization. The Machine had no way of telling that the approaching man in a business suit was not Clive Ray, business entrepreneur, but a recruited member ordered to bring Natasha back to base.

Decima had given up on trying to control Mildred. Their sights were now set on a closed system they could more easily control. Since Natasha beat them to the phone call granting her admin correspondence with the Machine, Decima sent out a high alert for Kitty's whereabouts. Her disguise did nothing. There were simply too many agents running around the city for her to be invisible anymore.

 ** _HANDGUN_**

 ** _ARMANI SUIT_**

Kitty focused her attention on the passing man just in time to see the flash of a gun pointing in her direction. Grabbing Grace by the waist, Natasha flung them both into the street as the blast of a gun firing sent people screaming in all directions.

 ** _PIZZA DELIVERY BOY_**

 ** _12 O'CLOCK_**

Yanking Grace with an iron grip, Natasha pulled them in front of a passing pizza delivery car. "Get out," she ordered and flung the young man out of the car. "Get in," she yelled at Grace as more gunfire broke out. "Grace, I need you to drive."

 ** _SITUATION IMMINENT_**

 ** _CONTACTING ADMIN HAROLD FINCH_**

"Where are we going? _Oh,_ _God,_ " she shrieked as Kitty pulled two guns from her waistband. "You're bleeding. You're . . . you're shot. You're shot twice."

"Don't worry about me. I won't let anything happen to you," Kitty promised. "Just drive, and drive fast." Natasha slammed the passenger door closed, and Grace sped away from the shooter, swerving to miss taxis and pedestrians. "Turn here. We're going to the airport."

Grace, now fully in shock, responded, "I don't have my bags fully packed yet."

"That's not exactly at the top of the list of things to worry about right now." Pounding on the button controlling the sunroof, Kitty peeked out the roof so she could scope out the people following them. "Damn it," she whispered as a car swerved from behind a street and aggressively advanced. "Drive faster, Grace."

Harold's rules had left a small impact on her. While abroad, Kitty did not allow Root to kill anyone who wasn't actively trying to kill them. And even when the two women found themselves in aggressive situations, killing—for whatever reason—made Kitty feel uncomfortable.

Now, in the heat of war, it made her feel nothing at all to put a bullet through the driver of the car trailing them.

Again and again, cars, SUV's, and a man on a motorcycle sped behind them, returning fire. Kitty reloaded three times before running out of ammunition. Despite her impeccable aim, there were too many agents and not enough bullets.

"Grace?" When the trembling woman didn't respond, Kitty yelled, " _Grace?_ Do not stop this car. Keep driving until you reach the airport. Promise me. _Promise me!_ "

Grace couldn't do much more than inhale chunks of air at a time, attempting to remain calm through this violent ordeal.

Kitty watched as yet another car pulled out onto the street in pursuit. She was out of bullets, but not out of ideas. It was a sacrifice Natasha was willing to make if it meant Grace and Peregrine could live long, happy lives.

Still, it was terrifying enough for time to slow almost to a stop—the sound of car horns and screaming dulled to a low hum. Natasha realized she was shaking only after her grip on the sunroof slipped.

"Grace?" Stealing herself for what needed to be done to keep her contingency safe, Kitty inhaled deeply. "I'm glad it was you."

Grace blinked, breaking free from shock for a moment, just in time to watch Natasha propel herself up out of the car. Her body slammed hard into the speeding SUV trailing behind them—smashing into the windshield and tumbling up and over the roof.

Screaming her throat raw, Grace kept coherent enough to keep her foot on the gas pedal, speeding away as all the cars in her rearview mirror slammed on their breaks and swerved into one another. Now that the highway was cutoff by dozens of misplaced and angry motorists, the passage to the airport was without interruption.

Grace pulled up to the terminal, knuckles white from gripping the wheel, her entire body trembling. The image of Kitty smashing into the SUV like a rag doll played on repeat in her memory, and it was no time at all before she was slumped forward, sobbing against the steering wheel of a stolen pizza delivery car.

Grace screamed at a loud knock on the driver's window.

"Hello, Grace." Root adjusted the napping child in her arms and offered the panicked woman a reassuring smile. "I'm here to escort you to your flight."

"Please," Grace pleaded, out of breath. "Please, I just want to . . . I just want to go . . ."

"You'll have to get out of the car before you go anywhere," Root teased. "You see, I'm in quite the bind. My friend is in trouble, but I can't do anything about it until I settle things on my end. I'll have to give you the Sparknotes Edition, okay?" Root handed the woman a suitcase and an envelope full of money, passports for herself and the child, and a list of instructions for what to do once she landed in Italy. "Long story short," said Root, "Grace Hendricks is dead. You are Grace Ellsworth. Understand?"

Grace shook her head, still trying to calm down. "What? No, I—"

"Keep to this story," Root interrupted, "and you'll never have to worry about bad men with guns chasing you ever again. Now, say it. I am Grace Ellsworth."

Grace opened her mouth to repeat the words, but her jaw was chattering too much.

"I'm on a time-crunch, sweetheart."

"My name . . . is Grace . . . Ellsworth."

"Say it again," Root commanded. "I need to be convinced before I can let you leave."

"My name is Grace Ellsworth."

"Good." Bouncing awake the sleeping toddler in her arms, Root gave her a smile of pure adoration. "And this little angel is Peregrine. But I like to call her Perry. Perry? This is the woman I was telling you about. This is your new mommy."

"Hi," Peregrine said sleepily and waved a tiny floppy hand in Grace's direction.

"She's two and a half, and don't let her try to convince you otherwise." Root brought up a free hand to gently brush back dark flyaway hairs from the child's forehead. "It's supposed to be her nap time, so she should sleep real good for you on the plane. Now, repeat: I am Grace Ellsworth, and this is my daughter, Peregrine."

After transferring the drowsy child into Grace's arms, Root found herself distraught. She normally detested children, but Perry was quiet, clean, and one of the most adorable tiny humans she'd ever come in contact with. With her dark hair and wide eyes, she looked just like her mother. A mini Mildred. A mini Natasha.

Root grilled Grace until she was certain she could lie in a pinch, and then the woman was gone.

It wasn't until Grace was buckled safely into the plane—Peregrine napping against her shoulder in the next seat—that she allowed herself to relax.

Two hours into the flight, the little girl woke up and tugged Grace's shirtsleeve. "Can I have milk, please?" An attendant quickly placated the girl with a child's container of chocolate milk.

Unsure of what to say, Grace asked, "What's your name?"

"Peregrine," she answered happily. "What's _your_ name?"

"Grace."

"How many years old are you?" Perry held up four fingers. "I'm this many."

"Are you sure you're not two?"

"Okay," Perry amended and held up three fingers, "I'm this many."

"I've been warned about you," Grace laughed and tickled the giggling girl in the stomach. "Guess how old I am."

Peregrine thought about it and held up eight fingers. "This many?"

"I wish."

"What do you want to be when you grow up?" Perry inquired, already flipping through the food guide in the back pocket of the plane seat in front of her.

Grace smiled at the question. "An artist. What do you want to be when you grow up?"

"A flying squirrel."

"Would you like me to draw you a flying squirrel?" Grace tilted her head back to laugh as the excited little girl climbed into her lap.

* * *

"Sir," Agent Sarah alerted, "she's still alive!"

The commanding officer quickly strode over to Natasha's unresponsive body to see for himself. "Not for much longer. She's no good to us dead. Hurry up and get her in the van."

Agent Sarah hoisted the tall woman up into her arms, ignoring the screams and yells of the confused pedestrians around her. "I can't believe she thought some facial hair would throw us off."

"Stop talking and get us out of here."

Everything was going according to plan. For once, their boss would be pleased.

Smiling with victory, Agent Sarah hopped in the backseat with Natasha's body while the commander sped away towards one of the dead zones they'd all memorized. "I can't believe we actually did it."

"Stop talking."

"Sorry, it's just . . . this is a big deal."

"Yeah, no shit."

"Should we have gone after that other woman?"

"No. She wasn't part of the plan. Stick to the plan."

"Yes, Sir." Agent Sarah watched as blood shot out of a lacerated artery in Kitty's skull. After popping open a med kit, she staunched the most serious wounds and began working on a neck brace. "You said she's survived worse?"

"You think _this_ is bad?" he answered under his breath. "You should have seen her in Sweden."

"Quite the resilient creature."

"She just can't seem to die. It's everyone around her who dies instead."

Two bullets sliced through the window, straight through his face. His pressure on the gas petal slacked, the stirring wheel veering sharply to the left. Agent Sarah leapt forward to try and regain control of the vehicle, but all she received was a bullet in the chest.

"You're lucky I was bored and had nothing planned for today." Shaw reloaded from her sniper watchtower, firing twice to keep away agents arriving on the scene. "Where the hell are you? I can't do this forever."

"Hold them off a little longer." Root's voice sounded through a speaker in her motorcycle helmet. "I'm almost there, grumpy gills."

"I can see why Harold doesn't like you," Shaw muttered under her breath. Taking aim at another man attempting to open Kitty's car door, the relatively bored woman pulled the trigger and reached for more ammunition.

Root sped through traffic, blowing through red lights and stop signs in a mad pursuit of Natasha. When she finally reached the crashed car, Root skid her motorcycle to a halt and jumped behind a parked van to keep from being hit by an unknown shooter. "I'm blind," she whispered to the Machine. "A little help would be nice."

 ** _2 O'CLOCK_**

Peaking out from behind the van, Root raised her gun to shoot, but a sharp pain ripped through her ribs before she could fire. Realizing immediately that she'd been shot, Root swung back around just as a stream of bullets clanked against her metal shield.

"What was the scream for?" asked Shaw. "Are you hit?"

"I'm fine," Root answered through grit teeth. "Just cover me."

 ** _STOP_**

"I can't stop," Root refuted. She peeked around the van, only to discover someone had transferred Natasha's body to another car. "No!"

 ** _THERE ARE TOO MANY UNKNOWN AFFILIATES_**

 ** _I CANNOT GUARANTEE YOUR SAFETY_**

"I'm not letting them take her," she huffed.

"Get the hell out of there," Shaw warned. "There's too many of them, and I'm out of ammo. You're on your own."

Root listened to the click of disconnection and pounded the van she was hiding behind with a tightly clenched fist.

 ** _SECURE HAROLD_**

 ** _HE IS AT GRACE'S APARTMENT_**

"I'm supposed to protect _Natasha!_ "

 ** _ADMIN MUST BE PROTECTED_**

Pounding the van once more, Root calmed her ragged breathing and made a frantic break for her motorcycle. Shots broke out behind her as she sped away, driving in the opposite direction of the car carrying Kitty.

"Tell me where they're going."

 ** _I CANNOT SEE HER_**

"What do you mean you can't see her?" Root screamed.

 ** _SHE IS SOMEWHERE I CANNOT SEE_**

 ** _SECURE HAROLD_**

 ** _HE IS AT GRACE'S APARTMENT_**

"No! Tell me where those people are taking Natasha!"

 ** _THEY HAVE TAKEN HER TO A DEAD ZONE_**

"Where? WHICH ONE?"

 ** _SECURE HAROLD_**

"You're supposed to protect us," she shouted. "You were supposed to watch over us while Mildred is away!"

 ** _SECURE HAROLD_**

 ** _HE IS VULNERABLE_**

If this Machine was so keen on protecting its creator, maybe Finch could persuade it to cooperate. "Fine," Root relented at last. "I'll secure Harold."

What she declined to state aloud was that she planned to recruit him, not protect him. For better or for worse, he was going to help them get Natasha back.


	22. Catch 22

**Sorry for the incredibly late update, but I've been unbearably lovesick and melancholy lately. Long distance relationships suck ass.**

 **I have decided to break up what was going to be one freakishly long chapter into two chapters, so expect the next update to be published a lot sooner than this one was, lol. Thank you for all your reviews! They truly keep me motivated, especially now that I'm over 2,000 miles away from my family AND I'm in the middle of trying to get into a PhD program. Your patience is greatly appreciated.**

* * *

 _2009, Shanghai, China_

 _At thirty-seven, the spindly woman still seemed so childlike in nature. Paired with her porcelain skin and glossy black hair, it was impossible to guess her age correctly at first glance. She paced the length of the window, scrambling up on a stool to peek out at the darkness whenever she heard a noise. "They're going to kill us."_

 _"That was always a strong possibility," Kitty deadpanned. "You knew that before we started." Her fingers typed franticly on the keyboard, keying in the last pieces of the code. "Sit down, Fan. You're giving me anxiety."_

 _"Sorry," Fan whispered and took a seat, wringing her hands. "Is there anything I can do to help speed things up?"_

 _"You can be silent." Kitty watched the formulas flash across the screen and began typing even faster than before. "Let me work in peace."_

 _After only a few minutes of muteness, Fan whispered, "Natasha?"_

 _Kitty grit her teeth and paused just long enough to snap, "What?"_

 _"Listen," Fan whispered, pointing at the roof of their small basement dwelling. "There's someone in the house."_

 _Kitty paused, her fingers hovering over the laptop keys, as she strained to listen for any sounds above them. A creek of the floorboards was all she needed to hear. Snapping the laptop close, she swiftly packed it away in her satchel. "I haven't finished processing the data. We have to go somewhere else."_

 _Fan continued to stare up at the ceiling._

 _"Fan," Kitty hissed, "we have to leave, now."_

 _"It's too late," she whispered back. "They'll find us before we can reach the outskirts. You need to go. I'll stall them."_

 _"Mildred will protect us."_

 _"How? She's stretched too thin as it is." Fan could tell Kitty was about to argue, so she interrupted. "We were never both going to escape them. I can give you just enough time to clear the area. Mildred will protect you as soon as you're free. Please, Natasha," the woman begged and reached out to place a hand over the satchel, "make this count. Make them pay."_

 _"Fan—"_

 _"Go," she urged._

 _Natasha hesitated only a second longer before shoving aside a heavy stone blocking the emergency exit out of the building as she began the long crawl to freedom._

* * *

 _2014, Manhattan_

"If you start monologuing," Kitty stated with no shortage of annoyance, "I'll find a way to kill myself. Try me."

"You're looking worse for wear," Greer affirmed, "as per usual."

"You're looking like a melted child's toy from North Korea, as per usual." It was difficult to move her arms and legs. She double checked her situation and confirmed that the intricate layers of belt restraints securing her to the hospital bed were impossible to escape from at the moment. "How did you find me?"

"Does it matter?"

"In that case, at least have the decency not to poison me. I request to perish in a fiery explosion. The bigger the better. In fact, I'd even be fine if you just tossed me into an incinerator."

"You misunderstand the situation," Greer explained with a humored shake of his head. "I'm afraid, my dear, that I'm not going to kill you."

* * *

 _New York City_

"No," Reese declared louder than Finch had ever heard before. "That's not going to happen."

"I'm standing right here, Mr. Reese," Harold protested. "You don't need to speak on my behalf."

John ignored his friend's affronted voice and deepened his disapproving glare at the woman currently occupying their safehouse. "Whatever you need Harold for, I can do it."

Root sat stiffly on a kitchen chair, pretending not to notice Reese's expression. Brushing imaginary dust off her jeans, she finally looked up at the two men and forced a smile. "Honestly, Harold. I don't know how you put up with someone this primitive." Making a show to bob her head with each word, she explained slowly, "Decima has no use for retired G.I. Joes. You wouldn't last two seconds in their lair."

"And Finch will?"

"Harold's the _only_ one who will. He created the Machine they desire to wield. Decima needs him, if only to probe his mind. The rest of us are cannon fodder." Root checked her cellphone for texts, but the only messages the Machine had sent were more numbers in need. Instead of revealing Natasha's last known coordinates, the Machine kept alerting her about people in varying levels of danger. Root looked back up at Reese and wondered if saving the numbers would lead to answers. "I could use your help in another matter, if you really want to be productive."

* * *

 _Manhattan_

300 minutes after waking up on an operating table, Natasha abandoned the idea of rescue. She'd been steadily counting the seconds one by one—18,000 in all—for 3 hours, but there was no way of telling how long she'd been unconscious before waking up. 2 hours? 5? It didn't matter. It was obvious no one was coming for her.

Or maybe it meant her rescue was dead.

Kitty's left arm and right leg were broken—both encased in casts. Hospital staff had also tightly secured her stiff neck in a brace. Even if escape were possible, she was too tired to try. Any time a staff member in another room saw her attempting to unlock her restraints, they initiated a powerful burst of electricity that left her stiff and immobile.

Greer stared out the one-way window overlooking Kitty's seclusion and watched as she sat perfectly still in the chair. It had only taken four shocks to dissuade her from trying to escape. "Parker," he asked suddenly. "Has she said anything?"

"No, sir. Not anything useful. What do you need me to do?"

"American's are willing to pay anything for full custody of her. We've been given quite an offer from this . . . Northern Lights. More than enough to make up for all the money she's lost us in the first place. However," he continued and turned to look at his agent, "for obvious reasons, I need to ensure she doesn't disclose certain information about our cause. How do you suggest I do this?"

A test. Agent Parker thought hard. "How, sir?"

"In order to truly keep someone like her in line, you have to break them."

"Mutilation?"

Greer shook his head dismissively. "Physical torture has nearly no effect on her. In fact, I'm not sure someone of her constitution would be opposed to the idea at all. No," he clarified, "we're not going to break her bones, Parker. We're going to break her mind. Or at least what's left of it."

"Sir," an excited young woman hurried down the hall as quickly as possible without causing a scene. "We have someone you might want to talk to. Found him at Zone 11. All agents involved followed full protocol to bring him here."

"And what's so interesting about him?" Greer studied the man rounding the corner and saw no obvious signs of importance—the man was older, wore glasses, and was dressed in a suit—but a familiarity hung in the air. Greer had seen the man before in a crowd or photo or the background of security footage. Before his agent could reveal the man's identity, Greer had already guessed.

"Sir," the agent announced with suppressed enthusiasm, "he says his name is Harold Finch."

* * *

It was unnaturally cold. Finch wasn't handcuffed or sedated, but he had been led to a seat overlooking a room where Kitty was strapped down to a chair. From his vantage point, Finch had a clear view of the tired looking woman, but although she glanced up and caught his eye several times, there was never any reaction of recognition. Taking a seat on the chair provided for him, Finch concluded the glass must be one-way.

Finch had only minimal faith in this escape plan. Root was adamant about the mission for a slew of reasons Finch could only guess at, but he was here for the simple fact that he owed Natasha a debt. In the end, it didn't matter how dicey the situation had gotten, the result was that Grace was now forever free from the danger posed by either Kitty or Finch. It was a feat he was unsuccessful in accomplishing alone. Nothing in the world was more important to him.

At the sound of the door opening, Finch looked up in time to watch a young man enter the room with a sizable potted plant. Without saying a word, he approached Natasha's chair, raised the pot high, and let it fall to the floor with a crack.

Natasha blinked as crumbling soil spread across the white tile in front of her. "Fuck you, Vincent," she snarled when the man took out a large water bottle and poured it over the dirt. Bits of mud splashed up onto her clothes and twitching face. "You little bitch. I hope you get colon cancer."

"I've never been a fan of fanatics." Greer approached Finch's chair overlooking the room and leaned in closer to the glass. "Nor am I particularly fond of vulgarity. But," he flicked a switch to cut off the microphone in Kitty's room just as she began a particularly callous insult. "Time and time again, I find myself bound to this . . . thorn in my side."

"What is it you want?"

Greer paused before answering and watched as Natasha began an attempt to deconstruct her restraints again. Reaching out, Greer pressed a button on the wall, and Natasha instantly jolted rigidly in the chair, only slightly relaxing when he released his finger.

"Mr. Finch, I have invested a great deal of money into the woman you are currently observing. In return for offering her steady employment, she subsequently thanked our organization by murdering us with poisonous gasses, sabotaged our mission at every turn, and hacked into various international bank accounts to deplete our funds."

Finch tried to look at the man but found himself unable to pry his eyes away from Kitty's randomly shuddering body.

"We're ready for her, sir," an agent announced.

Leading Finch down a long corridor, Greer stepped into a room housing tall glass walls curved around into a circular tank. At the very top—high above the ground floor where they stood—was a door leading to a platform hovering over the water like a diving board. Walking up close to the glass, Greer nodded at the water sloshing around inside. "Proceed," he announced.

An unearthly shriek the likes Finch never heard before tore through the doorway leading to the platform and straight through the glass. Emerging in a mess of flailing appendages, Natasha swung her stiff casts at anyone inexperienced enough to approach striking range. Reaching out for the nearest wall, Kitty dug her fingernails into metal until it emitted a sickly screeching. Every hair on the back of Finch's neck stood on end as she screamed again, this time raising her unbroken leg to brace against the doorway leading to the water tank.

Two agents heaved against each of her shoulders, but after failing to push Kitty into the tank by force, an operative cracked his gun against the back of her skull, and she limply collapsed face-first into the water, smacking hard against the side of the glass on the way down.

Whatever brief unconsciousness she'd fallen under dissolved the second her body submerged in a blinding mass of bubbles. Finch watched as her eyes shot open, her broken arm and leg swinging wildly without purpose.

"It's such an interesting phenomenon. Don't you think?" Greer continued despite Harold's silence. "Human babies have an innate ability to easily breach the surface of a body of water. Adults who never learned how to swim, however—"

Harold observed Natasha's frantic struggle to reach air, mentally coaching her despite the useless thoughts. Even her unbroken limbs were hopelessly grasping at the water as if searching for something to pull herself up with. _Don't panic. You'll drown faster._ It was only after Greer asked him to repeat himself that Finch realized he was whispering aloud. "You haven't killed me yet, so I'm here for a reason. I'll tell you whatever you want," Finch offered. "Stop this."

"Believe me when I say I have no intention of killing a mind such as yours. All I'm interested in, Mr. Finch, is offering you a position of great prestige within our company. I feel we can achieve great strides in advancing global cohesion."

"Just get her out of there before she drowns."

"Harold," Greer drawled with a hint of humor, "drowning was always the goal."

It was now obvious that Kitty had completely run out of air, and her flails turned into a convulsion as her body tried desperately to breathe. Massive air bubbles ballooned out of her open mouth—her eyes wide with terror—before her body finally stilled into a limp, lifeless corpse, slowly sinking to the bottom of the tank, one of her arms still reaching up towards the surface.

Finch jolted at the sound of Greer's loud command.

"Fish her out," Greer ordered. "Pump her lungs, and we'll start again in an hour. Always so stubborn," he added, sounding amused.

* * *

Natasha wasn't cold—she just couldn't stop shivering.

It was all part of the game, after all. Keeping her trapped in a mound of sodden clothes. Cranking the air conditioning to levels only comparable to Siberia. Drops of water trailed down from her drenched hair, slowing in speed as the air in the room turned them to slush.

 _You think these muscle convulsions are a happy side effect of this room, but they're nothing more than involuntary aftershocks from your damn electrocutions. Jokes on you,_ she thought bitterly. _You could freeze me solid and I wouldn't feel a thing._

It was becoming increasingly more difficult to breathe. Each lungful of icy air cut her lungs with the inconsistent jagged slashes of broken glass, leaving her even more winded. It was also becoming more difficult to think, and Kitty had long since stopped counting the seconds since her last session of torture.

"You just won't die, will you?"

Kitty's drowsy head swung up heavily to witness for herself the owner of the familiar voice. It was impossible, but she was standing at the entrance of the room regardless.

"You're supposed to be dead," said Kitty.

"At least I was only supposed to die once," Fan replied. "You're on . . . what? Life seven?"

"You haven't aged a day," Kitty commented. "I hate you for it."

Fan still looked exactly the same as she had five years ago, but there was definitely a change from the nervous girl who sacrificed herself so Kitty could continue fighting this organization. Something in her demeanor gave her away, and her next words were the only confirmation Kitty needed. "Do what they want," Fan commanded calmly. "Tell them where Mildred is."

Natasha's expression softened slightly as Fan approached her seat. "What did they do to you?" To her great surprise, Fan reached out and softly stroked Kitty's arm with the backs of her fingers. After finding the tiny lump she was searching for, Fan unfastened the restraints securing Natasha's arms.

Clasping one of Kitty's hands, Fan left behind a small razor blade when she pulled away, curling Natasha's fingers around the secret gift. It was all clear once Kitty noticed the look in her eyes. It was the look she'd given before telling Kitty to run. It was an expression of complacent acceptance of death.

Fan continued talking—speaking the pre-planned words Decima had forced her to remember in preparation for this day—but the second Kitty felt Fan's own razor-blade dig into her upper arm, she knew no amount of torture had truly changed her friend.

* * *

Finch watched the entire exchange through the same window as before. Regretfully, Greer had decided—once again—to join him.

"How much do you really know about Natasha Krause?" Greer asked randomly, smiling when Finch did not provide an answer. "In truth, Mr. Finch, I feel sorry for you. I can't imagine what utter rubbish she filled your head with to gain your trust. I assure you, they were all lies."

"She was right about _you_ ," Finch countered quietly. "She wasn't lying about you people."

"How quick you are to defend her." Greer paused to snort a small amused chuckle. "Your dear friend is no saint. Far from it, but you'd never know that talking to her. I'm assuming she's neglected to tell you about the family of six she decimated in a grenade blast in Shanghai, 2008. Or the Chinese ambassador she assassinated in Germany, 2009. Or the—" His voice trailed off as he caught a glimpse of what was transpiring in Kitty's room. Fan had a hand on Natasha's shoulder, but although she wasn't clenching the pale arm with any exceptional force, bright blood trailed down and dotted the floor.

"Sir?" an agent asked, seemingly just as puzzled as Greer himself was. "I don't know what she's doing. Do you want to abort?"

It was only when Kitty raised a hand and mirrored Fan's actions that he understood what was happening. "Poison," Greer mused aloud. "It's poison. Get her out of there!" he shouted when no one responded.

Finch watched in horror as Fan extracted what looked like a small metal pill from inside Kitty's arm, while Natasha pulled the same item out of Fan's. Both women fumbled with the bloodied devices, twisting it between their slippery fingers. Fan succeeded in freeing the cyanide pill inside and popped it in her mouth, chewing vigorously while trying to help Kitty release her own pill.

When the door swung open with a crash, Fan dropped Kitty's pill—still encased in the metal that served to protect them from poisoning until their utter last resort. Fan caught Natasha's eye with a sorrowful apology written in her pained expression, frothy spittle already foaming from between her lips. She had already collapsed before the first agent on the scene had time enough to reach Kitty's chair, where the half-frozen woman sat groping for the pill on the ground.

Natasha's fingers burned like fire as they probed the ice-covered floor in search of the final solution. It had been Fan's idea, after they first met, back when they were both disgruntled Decima employees with no real means of escaping the establishment.

"You dumb bitch," Natasha heard a woman hiss just as a solid mass of metal cracked against the side of her skull, sending her flying across the floor, away from her dead friend.

"You're not supposed to hit her," someone else commented.

Kitty blinked drowsily in an effort to stay conscious. Through her tunneling vision, she noticed the woman who hit her was carrying a baton.

"No, Greer said it wouldn't be _effective_ ," the woman snapped. "I say he's wrong."

Kitty barely had enough strength to lift an arm up to shield her head before the woman brought her weapon down hard, again and again.

* * *

Finch took a seat in the chair overlooking Kitty's room and then immediately stood back up for the hundredth time. Pacing up to the window, he tried slapping a hand against it to see if Kitty could hear him, but there was never any reaction.

Plopping down in the seat again, he tried to think, but it was impossible to think while looking at the blood-splattered room of the woman he was supposed to be rescuing. After getting a few good thwacks in, baton woman failed to stop beating Kitty's body even after she'd long fallen unconscious. Now Kitty's face was bloated and black, glimmering with still-oozing cuts, but the worst suffering of all were the handcuffs securing her to Fan's wrist.

After waking up in a pool of her own blood, Natasha gathered what little stamina she had left and dragged Fan's body over to the corner of the room, where she hadn't moved since for several hours. Each breath puffed out in a shaky cloud as she stared out into nothing, waiting. Scrambled thoughts swam drunkenly around in her head, so much so that Greer had to speak before she even noticed he was standing in front of her.

"You can take this body away now," he commanded and motioned towards Fan.

Kitty reflexively pulled her friend's corpse closer when someone attempted to unlock the handcuffs securing the two women together. Blood gathered at Kitty's split lip, escaping her mouth in stringy red rivulets. Her attempts to keep Fan beside her were abysmal at best, and in no time at all the dead body was carted away for disposal.

"Don't embarrass yourself, Natasha. Do you still not understand, dear girl?" Greer waited for a response and was beyond pleased when Natasha—who never gave up an opportunity to curse him—did not produce one. Making sure to inject as much spite into his words as possible, he whispered, "You have never meant anything to anyone." Turning away to exit the room, Greer paused to give one final message. "Some of my best agents died to give me this. I suggest you pay attention."

A film began projecting on the far wall of Natasha's room. In her abused state it took her almost 30 seconds to realize what the film was depicting, but Finch realized what the video was the second Natasha walked into view. Only, it wasn't Natasha.

Harold pounded on the glass with an open palm, switching to a clenched fist when Kitty showed no signs of hearing him. As the video evidence of her family's assassination played on, the position of the secret camera in the baby monitor did not allow the viewer to see the death of Mildred's husband or Mrs. Krause, but it still picked up their frantic pleas moments before a fatal bullet ended the gruesome sounds of Mrs. Krause screaming for help.

Finch pressed hard against the glass, hating the utter helplessness of not being able to tell her to close her eyes. Together, they watched as Mildred Krause let out a scream before the sharp discharge of a gun silenced her forever.

As the film died away into a stark silence, Natasha looked lobotomized. For a horrifying moment, Finch wondered if maybe—in a way—she had been.


	23. Don't Let The Cat Out Of The Bag

**Kudos to those of you who find the Rugrats reference!**

* * *

Trapped in a cold room overlooking Kitty's prison cell, Harold couldn't tell what day it was. He couldn't even tell what _time_ of day it was. All he knew for certain was that Root was taking longer than prophesized to triangulate his position. Before sending him to the lion's den, Root installed a chip in Finch's glasses, but Decima's employees were armed with multiple scanners capable of malfunctioning technology for this exact reason.

It was near futile to hope for the best at this point. Decima had obviously taken extreme measures to ensure no unauthorized individuals had access to the location of this facility. After taking Finch hostage, the agents in charge of transporting him drove for miles, interweaving between dead zones until it became impossible to trace what car had Finch inside it versus the plethora of decoys scattering behind them into various parts of the city.

Raising his head from where it rested against the cool glass window, Finch called, "I have a request." Nobody had so much as offered him a glass of water all day, so he was somewhat startled when an agent appeared behind him within moments of voicing his discontent.

"What can I do for you, Mr. Finch?"

"I want to see her," he stated lowly, glancing at Kitty's room. "I would like to talk to her, please."

"Natasha?" the agent laughed quietly. "I'm not sure what good talking to her would do, but I don't see the harm in it. Not anymore." Finch followed behind the woman as she swiped a card and typed code into a keypad leading into Kitty's room. "She's useless now," the woman stated, sounding equally disappointed and excited. "Such a horrific waste, if you ask me." With a heavy clang, she pulled the door shut again, leaving Finch alone in the small metal glacier.

Finch shivered at more than just the low temperature. Natasha sat slumped in a chair at the far side of the room, jaw slack, skin bruised and bloodied, eyes open without seeing—one eye bubbled shut with inflammation—and the only thing holding her head up was the cast encasing her neck. As he neared the bloodstained chair Kitty was propped up in, he realized her complete lack of an expression wasn't because of a tired exhaustion. Kitty was biologically living, but there was absolutely nothing behind her glazed eyes. The lights were on, but nobody was upstairs—as Root would say.

Finch carefully shuffled his shoes across the iced flooring in an attempt to reach Kitty without slipping. Once he'd successfully navigated over to her chair, he noticed for the first time that her arms were full of needles attached to long tubes strung over a metal stand. Her mental state was serious enough to warrant the use of an IV to make sure she didn't perish from dehydration, and Finch doubted his abilities to make any sort of improvement in what little time Decima allowed him to be near her.

There was so much he wanted to say, despite knowing nothing he could conjure would ever be good enough. Unsure of what to do, he placed a much warmer hand over her icicle fingers.

Kitty didn't so much as blink at the contact.

* * *

Greer watched as Harold stood stiffly next to Natasha's unresponsive body. After a few minutes of holding her hand, Finch shrugged out of his suit jacket and draped it over her torso. "Who authorized this visit?" he asked his assistant.

"Agent Ford, sir. Do you need me to extract Mr. Finch from the room?"

"No," Greer concluded thoughtfully. "But I would like an answer, and soon. If he doesn't agree to work alongside us, then I'm afraid we'll have to try a little harder to . . . persuade him to cooperate. We've already lost one machine. I do not intend to lose another."

"Sir," the assistant announced, tapping agitatedly at her earpiece, "sir, we have an issue with gate 11. You should listen to this."

Greer flipped open the wireless communicator they used to correspond within the Faraday Box. On the other line, jumbled confused shouts sounded over the connection—one person yelling _Natasha_ while another simultaneously yelled _What the fuck?_

With a unanimous dying whir, all the lights in the facility cut out. Every possible scenario flashed through Greer's head, but in his heart he knew exactly what was about to happen. In fact, he was nothing short of impressed with how long it had taken to be found.

Sighing with resolve, Greer extracted a flashlight and the small emergency oxygen filter he kept at all times and proceeded to the nearest exit.

* * *

"Kitty?" Harold ventured, his breath swirling white with fog. "Kitty, can you hear me?"

After all she'd been through, after all Finch had seen her overcome, Natasha lay defeated—a victim of her own mind. Every muscle remained comatose. Even her blinking was unregulated, so Harold brushed the one eyelid that hadn't swollen shut closed. Nothing he did elicited a response.

As he wondered how long Decima would allow him to remain beside her, Finch sucked in a labored breath and realized something was in the air. Was this the final plan all along? Get them both in the same room and deplete the oxygen supply? He collapsed to one knee, reluctantly releasing Natasha's fingers so he could grope hopelessly at his throat.

Strong hands pressed something stiff and rubbery against his face, and in three short breaths, Finch recovered enough oxygen to open his eyes. Through the glossy lenses of a gasmask, Finch watched a masked man carefully pull out the long IV needles from Natasha's arms and scoop her up into a tight embrace.

* * *

 _2014, Winifred, Montana_

Finch sucked in air with a sudden surging need. As he blinked away sleep, he took careful consideration of his neck and spine, noting that both were relatively stiff. He was lying on a bed in a small unfamiliar room paneled with aged wood smelling distinctly of poverty. Hushed voices from outside the closed bedroom door prompted him to gather the strength needed to pull himself out of bed.

"Easy, Finch. Take it slow. You've been out for a while."

Finch jerked his body towards the familiar voice, his heart soaring with relief. "John," he hastily exclaimed.

Reese raised an eyebrow at the rare use of his first name and answered his friend's frantic question before it had even been asked. "She's here. She's asleep."

"Where are we?"

"Middle of nowhere," said Reese. "Lay back down for now, Finch. We have a lot to talk about."

Rescue had proven messier and more difficult than previously expected, but throughout Reese's long play-by-play of the elaborate scheme required to find and infiltrate Decima's secret base, Finch found himself most surprised to hear he and Natasha had been in Decima's facility for nearly a week.

Finch found Root and Shaw seated at a tiny table in the cramped kitchen of the small house. At the sight of Harold, Root sighed quietly. "Hey, Harry."

Finch surveyed his surroundings, and his eyes landed on a closed bedroom door across the house. "Is she in there?"

"She's still unconscious," Root answered and glanced at Reese. "Have you told him?"

Finch looked at the stoic man's unreadable expression. "Told me what?"

"Kitty's . . . hurt. Her right fibula snapped in two places when she was hit by the car, but that's not the problem." Root opened her mouth to continue, and Finch's already anxious mood increased when she simply shook her head forlornly and glanced down at the table.

Shaw—who was sitting across from Root—turned around in her seat, took a big bite of a sub sandwich, and fixed Harold with a blank stare. "We're trying to figure out the best way to tell your friend that she's never going to walk normally again. If she ever walks at all."

"I wish you wouldn't say that," Root whispered.

"What do you want me to say? Your stray cat has half a leg, Root. I might have been able to save it if Decima had a doctor worth their weight in dog food. But hey," said Shaw, "what do I know? I just went to medical school."

Finch ambled into the room, knocking into a chair in his haste to hear the woman better. "What do you mean _save the leg?_ "

"Decima waited too long to put her bones back together. And those idiots did a shoddy job of it anyway, so their cast was essentially worthless and ended up causing way more harm than good. I'm surprised she didn't die of infection." Shaw looked from Root to Finch, finally acknowledging the gravity of the situation. "Sorry, Harold," she apologized as sincerely as she was capable and took another bite of her sandwich. "I gave it my honest best effort, but there were too many complications."

"Harry?" Root called louder with each step he took towards the closed bedroom door. "Harold, come back. She's not even awake!"

It didn't make sense. It didn't make any sense at all in Harold's genius mind. Kitty had withstood countless injuries worse than a simple broken leg. Recovery was always an option, and the mere thought of such a wild creature forever maimed beyond repair was utterly incomprehensible. In his delirious haste, Finch concluded that seeing her injury for himself would satisfy the confusion on Root's part. Kitty had to recover. Kitty _always_ recovered.

Finch burst into the room, stopping short at the sight of Natasha. She was in perfect health, standing tall and completely unscathed next to a bed. Finch let out a nervous, shaky laugh of relief until he realized the bed Natasha was standing next to was occupied by . . . Natasha. His wide, confused eyes darted from the bruised, sweaty figure of the real Natasha to the perfectly sculptured eerie figure looming over her.

Finch meant to ask what was going on, but when he opened his mouth, all that came out was an alarmed snort.

Smiling widely, the thing standing next to Natasha's bed opened its mouth and spoke with the voice of Mildred Krause. "Harold, it's a pleasure to officially make your acquaintance. My name is Mildred." Two steps towards him was all he needed for the warning bells to sound the alarm in his head. The thing approaching him was _whirring_.

Before it could reach him, Finch turned and limped hastily back into the kitchen, where Root immediately began an explanation, but it fell on deaf ears. All Finch could do was accept a seat at the kitchen table and rub his temples in a feeble attempt to clear the ringing in his skull.

"My presence here is troubling him," Mildred announced from the hall. "I will return to Natasha's bedside."

* * *

Finch wiped sweat from his forehead and gratefully accepted a glass of wine from Reese. "You mean to tell me," he whispered in stunned disbelief, "there's another artificial intelligence? One comparable to my Machine? And you mean to tell me this one is an _open system?!"_

"She's so much more than that, Harry."

Finch looked up at Root, his facial features twisted comically into a sickened grimace. "It's not a _she_ , Miss Groves. It's a _thing._ It's a _machine._ " _And that thing is still in her room,_ he thought, but before he could clear his mind enough to make a conscious decision to shoo whatever _it_ was out of Natasha's room, he heard a sound that made the wine glass slip through his fingers and shatter on the cheep linoleum.

Kitty shrieked louder than she had when faced with the prospect of drowning, but what forced Finch out of his inertia was the terror in her shrieks. It was such pure, unadulterated horror that it even frightened Reese, who was already halfway down the hallway leading to her room.

Mildred was situated in the doorway, blocking Finch's view, but he didn't need to ask for her to get out of the way. She sensed his presence through the expensive speakers in her ears and stepped to the side, allowing the fidgety man to squeeze by.

Reese wasn't entirely sure what to do. He was never a master of comforting others, but in this case he was somewhat versed in what his hysterical friend needed. He'd barely had time to kneel at her bedside before she clutched at his suit in a desperate attempt to pull him closer to her trembling figure. For the first time, Reese returned her clinging gesture, rubbing a consoling hand between her shoulders.

But physical contact didn't seem to quell the turmoil raging in her mind, and Kitty continued to scream with a wild, paranoid abandon.

"Get that thing out of here!" Reese commanded in Mildred's direction.

Finch wasn't entirely sure what to do, but thankfully the decision was made easy when Kitty noticed his presence and thrust her unbroken arm out, grasping with abandon.

"Don't," Kitty stuttered violently, "don't leave. Please," she begged through agonizing sobs, "don't leave me."

As the two men tried their best to calm her down, Root approached Mildred. Without having to say a word aloud, Mildred spoke through the Bluetooth in Root's ear, relaying exactly what was needed at the moment.

"I'm on it," Root announced and hastily spun around to head for the front door.

* * *

Finch felt his eyes flicker for the hundredth time and yawned loudly. He'd been sitting beside Natasha's bed for the past eleven hours, waiting for another sporadic recovery from her unconsciousness. She'd awoken once so far, and only for a few minutes, but he wanted to be sure he was available the next time she woke up—whenever that would be.

It was hard to look at her through all the blood and swelling. Reese had been in twice to wipe at her face with antiseptic and apply cold packs to her swollen-shut eyelid, but there was a long way to go before her appearance even slightly resembled the one he remembered.

When looking at her face became too much, Finch averted his sight to the shapely figure of her legs under the blanket. One long limb sculpted the full length of her leg, while the other side held no shape below the knee where her cast should have been.

Still, he did not believe it.

Carefully lifting up the blanket, Finch immediately regretted checking. "Mr. Reese?" he called shakily. "Mr. Reese?"

John appeared like an apparition. "Did she wake up again?"

"No," Finch clarified with a hand on his stomach. "I need you to watch over her for a moment. I . . . I think I'm going to be sick."

Kitty arched her back as a heart-wrenching scream tore through the air, shattering her dream state and thrusting her full force back into stark reality. Finch—his nausea currently overcome with surprise—grabbed one of Kitty's arms, while Reese pulled her into his lap, holding Natasha in a careful restraint to keep from hurting herself. After a few moments of frantic thrashing and incoherent wails, she stilled.

Finch recognized the blank expression at once. It was the same defeated glaze that had come over her after seeing her sister's assassination footage. "Kitty?" he ventured. "It's Harold. John is here with us. We're not going to leave you. You're safe now. Can you hear me?"

Not even her eyes moved to look at him.

Another hour passed before she succumbed to unconsciousness again.

Finch noted the discolored skin and dark circles under Reese's eyes. It was often that the both of them were sleep deprived now and again while working on the numbers, but it was obvious that this time was the worst of all. "You haven't slept in days," he commented.

"I'm fine."

"I'll watch her."

"I'm fine, Finch."

"Even _we_ need sleep, periodically, Mr. Reese." Finch nodded solemnly. "Please. You're no use to her half dead."

* * *

Shaw finished raiding the fridge and stood in the kitchen, munching another sandwich and attempting not to stare too long at the strange creature standing across from her.

Although Shaw never professed to be a tech-geek—as she called them—she still knew robots existed. She just didn't know such an advanced one existed. There didn't seem to be anything it couldn't do, but despite Finch's obvious discomfort, Shaw found Mildred interesting.

"So, you know everything, right?"

Mildred clicked softly with every blink of her HD camera eyes. "I know most everything."

"You know what I'm thinking right now?"

"I can give you a list of most likely options."

Shaw stood up straight when Reese appeared down the hallway. "How's she doing?"

Reese seemed emotionally unmoved by the day's chaos—as per usual—so it was a surprise for all when he swiftly lashed out, denting the fridge with a fist before pushing past Shaw into the living room.

* * *

"She's not eating," said Finch. "She can't go on much longer. Not like this. We have to do something."

Reese glared at Mildred from across the kitchen. "You said you have a plan."

Mildred calculated the most soothing tone of voice before speaking. "Unless unforeseen circumstances arise, Root will arrive in exactly twenty minutes with precisely what Natasha requires for recovery."

"And what would that be?" Reese looked at the TV and VCR Mildred made Shaw buy at a local pawnshop. "Pretty sure reruns of the Brady Bunch isn't an effective form of therapy."

"Finch knows," Mildred announced cryptically. "It is the solution to Natasha's greatest regret."

Finch raked his mind for the answer to this riddle, but in his usual hypocrite fashion, he'd forced Reese to sleep while never allowing himself even a ten-minute nap. He simply couldn't think. "I would prefer it if you didn't speak to me." He retrieved a water bottle from the fridge and returned to Kitty's beside, where he only ever left to use the restroom.

Exactly twenty minutes later, Root swept into the house with an ecstatic smile. "I have it! Sorry it took so long. Tracking down a rogue VHS is a lot harder than I thought it would be. Turns out Mama Krause gave a copy to a relative in Poland, and let me tell you, he was _not_ an easy man to find. Let's just hope it isn't damaged."

"John," Mildred asked politely, "would you please help Harold transport Natasha into the living room? There's a wheelchair in the hall closet."

"What are we doing?" Finch asked the second he and Reese were alone.

"The doomsday device wants us to transport Kitty to the living room."

"No," Finch clarified, "what are we doing here? With that thing? We can't . . . Mr. Reese, I haven't the strength to process what exactly is going on here."

"We can worry about that later. For now," Reese said as he hoisted Kitty's limp body out of the bed, "we need to focus on getting her brain back to normal. And if cyborg sister has a means of doing that . . . then I'm on board."

* * *

Kitty sat immobile in a wheelchair too cramped for her remaining long leg. Finch withdrew his hand from her wrist and reluctantly allowed Root to fuss over Kitty's slumped body. When all was to her liking, Root turned on the TV and pushed the video into the player.

Jagged white lines shot through a black background, settling into an eventual grainy grey as a roaring crowd sounded through the outdated television speakers. It was difficult to tell what was going on because of the shaky camerawork, but as soon as a stage light illuminated the darkness, and the camcorder had time to focus on the performers entering from the side stages, the previously comatose Kitty stirred in her seat.

Mildred Krause bounded onto the stage in a flourish of twirls and complicated footwork. Her elaborate costume glistened like rays off a lake as she leapt and spun towards and away from her dancing partner.

When Kitty had recovered enough to realize what she was watching, her unbroken arm shot out towards the television. Root carefully pushed the wheelchair closer, until at last Natasha's fingertips could brush against the image of her sister.

Finch wanted to feel joy at the sight of her movement, but all he felt was a looming despair. He remembered now what Kitty had told him once, when they were alone together in the library.

Natasha's greatest regret in life was never getting the chance to see her sister dance for the Bolshoi Ballet.

Nobody—not even Shaw—said a word as Kitty dolefully pawed at the screen and muttered the same German phrase again and again and again.

Mildred glanced down at Finch, and he reluctantly turned his shoulders to look up at it. "You are beautiful," Mildred declared. "You are so beautiful." She pulled the detailed network of wires under her artificial skin into a smile at the disturbed and confused expression on Finch's face. "You were wondering what Natasha was whispering."

* * *

 _2014, Duchess County, New York_

Finch couldn't sleep.

Even though Mildred had made every assurance that he was safe from anything Decima might try in the future, Finch still wasn't comfortable being forced to stay in the same safehouse that had once been home to both Bonnie and Dr. Boer. On one hand, he was relieved that Mildred, Root, and Shaw were not living here as well, but his nervousness of somehow being found by Decima made it impossible to sleep.

It was the second night in a row that his insomnia had wreaked enough havoc to make slumber impossible. Resigned to commence with the same routine he'd followed the previous sleepless night, Finch rolled out of bed and shuffled downstairs into the kitchen.

"John?" he questioned at the sight of Reese bent over the stove. "What are you doing?"

"Making chocolate pudding."

"It's four o'clock in the morning. Why on earth are you making chocolate pudding?"

"Because I've lost control of my life."

Finch glanced into the living room where Kitty was still immobile in front of the TV. "Has she spoken to you?"

"Once." Reese stirred methodically. "Only to request pudding."

"Someone always needs to watch over her. You should have alerted me. I wasn't sleeping." Finch exited the kitchen and approached Kitty's wheelchair. She was too close to the TV for Finch's liking, but he refrained from commenting on the high probability of retina damage. "Good morning. I take it you didn't get any sleep last night either?"

Kitty spun the wheelchair away from the video of her sister and squinted into Harold's surprised eyes. "Actually, I just woke up from a nice long nap."

"Oh," he stated, shocked that she had answered. In the agonizingly long month they'd lived here, Kitty hadn't said a word. "That's . . . that's very good. I'm glad to hear it."

"Why are you not sleeping well?"

Stunned that Kitty was actually engaging in conversation, Finch had to clear his throat to make up for the fact that he hadn't thought of an answer yet. He decided humor was the best approach. "Oh, the usual. Neck ache. Back pain. General paranoia."

"I'm sorry for your physical troubles," she said, smiling. "On the contrary, I seem to find myself in the pinnacle of good cheer."

Finch fought valiantly to keep his expression from twisting up in confusion. "Is that so? I'm pleased to hear it." Grasping for something to keep the conversation alive, he asked, "How are you feeling?"

Smiling even wider, Kitty answered happily, "I'm missing half my fucking leg, Finch. How do you _think_ I'm feeling?"

Realizing where this was going, Finch attempted to speak, but Natasha was quick to cut him off.

"It's okay," Kitty announced optimistically. "I'll bounce back. I _always_ bounce back. That was sarcasm," she clarified at the look on Finch's face. "Bouncing? Because I only have _one fucking leg?_ Actually, that joke doesn't even work. Do you want to know why? I haven't been able to feel either leg since that psychotic bitch beat my face into hamburger meat. I'm a paralyzed, one-legged sack of pathetic shit." Still smiling, Kitty announced, "I don't want to talk to you anymore. Go away."

Finch blinked at the back of her wheelchair when she maneuvered it to spin away from him. It wasn't until the video ended, and Kitty made no moves to rewind it, that Finch finally decided to take a seat on the couch across from her.

Reese appeared a few minutes later. "Here's your pudding, Natasha."

"Oh, that's okay, John. I'm not hungry anymore."

Reese paused to process her refusal before heading back to the kitchen, blank-faced and defeated.

* * *

 _2015, Duchess County, New York_

Finch wished it would stop staring at him.

Mildred took careful note of Finch's posture and expression, cataloging it alongside the video surveillance feeds installed in the safehouse. Unbeknownst to any of the occupants, Mildred had been watching them through the wifi capabilities in her programing. "You're upset," she concluded. "You believe Kitty's hostility is directed at you, but you're wrong, to an extent. She's not angry with you, Harold, she's angry that she needs you in a way she's never needed another human before." Mildred waited for Finch to respond, and continued when he didn't. "In other words, she's embarrassed that you feel obligated to take care of her."

"Oh, fuck off, Mildred." Kitty appeared, sweaty from the exertion of wheeling herself so quickly into the living room. "Don't listen to a word she says, Finch. She's full of shit. Newsflash, you mechanical asshole . . . I don't need you. Fuck you, and fuck anyone who says otherwise."

Mildred clicked her eyes in a precisely timed blink based on the standard blinking time of the average American. She didn't _need_ to blink—and she didn't bother when she was out on missions with Root and Shaw—but in quiet moments, she found it eased unnecessary tension among humans. "I see your misplaced aggression has yet to subside."

"Why the hell are you here? You abandoned us in this shithole for two months. I at least deserve an explanation," Kitty seethed and turned towards where Root stood next to Finch's seat on the couch. "And why the hell are you with her?"

"She's shown me things," Root answered. "Expanded my mind beyond the . . . _mundane_ capabilities of my prior primitive being. I'm evolving just as quickly as she is."

After a long pause, Kitty's unamused voice rang out through the room. "You're insane."

"Natasha," Mildred asked calmly, "would you please refrain from useless obscenities? I have some important news to disclose to both you and Harold."

"I programmed this piece of shit," Kitty yelled crazily, wheeling closer to Finch while taking great pains to ignore Mildred. "She's my passion project. The Siberian Volki wanted an AI they could control, so I gave them a smartass who barely listens to what _I_ have to say. This metal abomination was my pathetic excuse to replace my sister, and somewhere along the way I had the absolutely brilliant idea to give her a body."

Finch furrowed his brows uncomfortably as Kitty wheeled closer. Her unkempt hair had grown just past her chin, but it stuck out ridiculously on one side, framing her sweaty, crazed face. "Natasha—"

"And you want to know the best part?" Kitty paused to slap the handrest of her wheelchair. "Now she can walk, and I can't! Talk about poetic irony, right?"

"I apologize profusely, Harold." Mildred glanced at Root, speaking through their Bluetooth connection. "But it seems the situation is worse than I suspected."

Finch finally looked at the machine. "Apologize for what?"

Root handed John an earpiece before walking over to where Kitty sat—still hysterically laughing—and carefully emptied the contents of a needle into her neck.

Finch leapt to his feet. "What are you doing? What was that?" He looked to Reese for help, but Mildred had already disclosed the details of her plan through the Bluetooth, so John made no moves to intervene.

"Something is happening," said Mildred. "Something beyond even my control. A very dangerous entity is plotting something that will change the course of human existence forever. I have spoken in length with my sister, and we both agree that you two are no longer safe here. Or anywhere in America, for that matter. It is our highest priority to keep you both safe, so we have decided to relocate you to the safest place on planet earth."

"What are you talking about?" Finch spluttered. "What dangerous entity?"

"You have earned my highest respect, so please do not force me to inject you, Harold. Root will provide a sufficient sedative to ease your journey. Drink it. Full instructions will be provided upon your awakening."

"Mr. Reese?" Finch gaped at his friend, frightened beyond comprehension.

Reese remained expressionless. "Drink it, Harold."

"Not until someone explains _exactly_ what the hell going on."

"Decima has used Natasha's destructive record to convince government representatives that they need Decima's help to find her. You and Natasha have just become the two highest-ranking wanted fugitives in 27 countries, and counting," Mildred answered. "Your faces have been printed on every newspaper and magazine. Newscasters and social media have already thoroughly circulated hit pieces. You cannot stay here any longer. Either of you." Mildred took note of his confused but contemplative expression. "Natasha is in need of a caretaker in these difficult times. You can help her, Harold."

"What about John?"

"I'm needed here," he answered. "That's what you originally hired me for, isn't it? Saving people? I don't think I can pass up the opportunity to save this many lives."

Finch raised a hand to his head and sat back down before dizziness completely overtook him. "And I'm—what? No longer needed?"

"Of course you're needed," Mildred assured. "You're job has changed, that's all. I will take charge of the numbers. You will take charge of Natasha."

"I'm just supposed to believe you?" Finch asked, but Mildred finished his thought for him before he had the chance.

"You wish to know why you should trust a machine to accurately embody the role of a human. I am nothing more than an imitation, is that correct?"

Finch took a long steadying breath and tried not to look as frightened as he was that Mildred had voiced precisely what he was about to say in almost the exact way he was going to say it.

"What's best for mankind," Mildred continued, "is that it's not run by Decima. Do you disagree?"

"I just don't think I can put much faith in something whose creator can't even speak highly of."

Mildred smiled and then tweaked her lips to connote bittersweet sadness. "Natasha has a long road ahead of her, but she will recover in time. For now, she cannot be left alone. Even if you were not a wanted man, I would still have chosen you to stay with her. She's very fond of you."

Finch thought as hard as he could despite the searing headache brought on by so much stress. He finally looked up to give his answer, realizing at last that he never actually had a choice.

* * *

 _2015, Antarctica_

Finch sat up in bed and took a look around the room, but Kitty had been placed elsewhere. It was cooler than he'd like, but he saw no signs of a thermostat on the wall. On the table next to his bed, someone had placed a large glass of water and a thick yellow envelope. Finch went for the water first, attempting to quench the unbearable thirst the sedatives had left him with.

When at last he'd drank his fill, he reached for the envelope and yanked out the first page.

 _Hello Harold,_

 _I hope you are well rested because I'm afraid you have your work cut out for you in the days to come. Natasha will wake up approximately two hours after you. Please read the enclosed packet carefully and prepare yourself. It is to be expected that she will be violently distraught upon awakening._

 _This packet contains a map of the laboratory, a full roster of fresh and frozen foods, and multiple suggestions for when you cannot control her._

 _I entrust Natasha to you._

Finch sat back down at the edge of his bed to try and process all of this new information. He had questions—enough questions to fill a library of books—but what stood out to him most wasn't the mention of a laboratory, or Kitty's expected behavior. Most troubling of all was the four word closing at the bottom of the page.

 _Do not fail me._


	24. Do You Come Here Often?

_2015, Antarctica_

Finch parted his lips in a monstrous yawn before pressing the start button on the coffee maker. Of all the many amenities the laboratory had to offer, he was most thankful for this caffeine producing wonder. It was the only thing keeping him alert enough to watch over Natasha.

Mildred's instruction list was lengthy, and half of the suggestions did nothing more than irritate the already unapproachable woman left in his care. Kitty's wrath had surpassed anything Finch had ever seen before, melting into a bitter resentment at his mere existence. It was rare that she spoke, and rarer still for something other than foul slurs to come bursting forth.

In the week following their arrival, Kitty only appeared from out of her room to hunt for something to break. On the first morning of their captivity, she wheeled herself into the kitchen and destroyed a toaster and five porcelain dinner plates before Finch could push her back into her room.

Not wanting to engage in conversation, Kitty silently rolled around the corner, but Pistachio gave away their location with a coo.

Twisting his torso towards the doorway leading into the kitchen, Finch attempted civility. "Good morning, Miss Krause. Is there any specific meal you'd like for breakfast?"

Before he could finish the inquiry, Kitty coasted over to a plate on the table and overturned the scrambled eggs with a violent flick of her wrist. "I'm not hungry."

"Natasha, that was _my_ breakfast." Finch sighed heavily. "There's no need to waste perfectly good food."

"I'm sorry, Finch," she snapped. "I had no idea you were enjoying our stay enough to garner an appetite."

"I didn't ask to be here any more than you did."

"Oh, well that certainly makes me feel better," Kitty sneered. "Are you going to clean this up, or do I have to?"

Finch eyed the mess of egg and broken porcelain scattered across the cold cement flooring. "If you're capable of making a mess, you're capable of cleaning it up."

Kitty swiped a strand of hair out of her eyes and blinked rapidly. Most of her facial swelling had subsided, and the bruises had begun to lighten from a haunting black to a nauseating greenish-yellow. "How does it feel?"

Finch's eyes briefly darted to the floor again, wondering why she hadn't started cleaning yet. "How does _what_ feel, Miss Krause?"

"How does it feel to be trapped in an underground laboratory with an evil genius?"

Finch met her narrowed eyes with an irritated frown. "Please don't cheapen the English language with such ridiculous hyperboles."

"I _am_ evil, Harold!" she belted out of nowhere, causing Pistachio to fly onto Finch's shoulder to seek shelter. "Don't you understand? There's something wrong with me. I'm not _normal._ I kill people. I lie. I cheat. I steal. I've gotten very good at mimicking morality, but you want to know the truth? I do things that people like you and John call reprehensible . . . and I feel _nothing."_

Harold was slightly relieved at her outburst. At least it was something beyond her usual silent moping or rage-fueled swearing tirades. "I don't believe that's true."

"That's because you don't know anything about me."

"On the contrary, Miss Krause. I know quite a lot about your life."

"I would have killed you," she interrupted. "In the hotel. When I was blind, remember? I would have squeezed the life right out of you, and I wouldn't have cared."

"But you didn't."

Both fell silent as the coffee maker finished brewing with a few half-hearted spurts.

Finch suppressed the urge to snap something snarky at her and instead pulled out one of the documents Root had prepared for him. "Miss Groves has provided a financial update about your cantina club. I'm afraid it's not good news."

Kitty perked in her chair. "What?"

Finch pulled out the statement and pretended to read. "It's a real shame for those poor women, but," he began stuffing the paper back in the envelope, "it doesn't matter."

"Give it here."

"Pardon?"

Kitty leaned forward, neck outstretched like an ostrich. "Give me the damn letter!"

"Why?"

Puffing out her cheeks with exertion, Kitty furiously spun the rubber wheels of her chair over to the coffeemaker and snatched the paper out of his hands. After reading a few lines of text, her face puckered. " _I've liquidated the assets from the club and distributed them equally amongst your girls. They'll want for nothing—"_ Kitty crumbled the paper and looked back up at Finch. "Why'd you lie?"

"What does it matter? You don't care— _Natasha!_ Don't swipe at me! This coffee is extremely hot."

Ignoring his demand, Kitty leaned forward in another attempt to knock the steaming mug out of his hands. Still unaccustomed to not having movement of her remaining leg, Kitty leaned too far forward, accidently flinging herself onto the floor.

Finch practically tossed his coffee onto the counter and leaned down to help. Immediately on the defensive, Kitty twisted her face into a terrifying snarl. "Don't. Touch. Me."

"Miss Krause—"

"Get. Away. From. Me. _Now._ "

It was no use arguing with her when she was in a mood. He'd learned that much at least. "Alright," Finch relented and took a seat at the kitchen table.

For a moment, Kitty did nothing. Then, without warning, she jerked her head in Finch's direction and screamed, "Stop looking at me!"

He contemplated a great many things to say, all ranging from sympathetic encouragement to an annoyed lecture about acting like a mature adult. In the end, he merely gathered his belongings and exited the kitchen.

Kitty was adept at climbing, and her arm strength was impressive, but even her defined muscles were unable to haul the dead weight of her torso and remaining long leg up into the chair. Frustrated tears welled in her eyes as she gripped the sides of the wheels, pausing to catch her breath.

Finch returned a few minutes later to find her still sprawled out on the floor. "Miss Krause, this is ridiculous."

"No, what's ridiculous is that you won't even call me by my goddamn name." Kitty's grip on the wheel slipped, and as she crashed the rest of the way onto the floor, the wheelchair accelerated across the kitchen, slowly spinning to a silent stop. "Don't," she threatened quietly when Finch walked towards the chair.

"I'm merely moving it back to its original position."

"Leave it. I don't need your fucking help."

With a huff, he announced, "Alright, Natasha. I'll leave you to it, then. Just yell when you figure out you can't do everything on your own."

Finch exited the kitchen once more, but this time instead of wandering down the hall, he stayed by the doorway, out of sight. Kitty waited a few minutes as assurance of his departure, and then he heard a series of tortured grunts in what he eventually realized were the sounds of Kitty dragging her body across the kitchen. With each new attempt to hoist herself into the chair, Natasha unleashed a strenuous yell of frustration before pausing to pant at the exertion.

Finch had no idea how long it was before the noises stopped, but he counted to a hundred before entering the kitchen to assess Kitty's progress. "I see you're still not in your chair."

Flaring her nostrils in response, she swallowed before answering. "I can't."

Finch pressed his lips together at her admittance. Her voice was raw, and no amount of blinking stopped tears from spilling down her cheeks. Natasha didn't even bother to wipe at her face to hide them.

Limping across the kitchen, Finch slowly kneeled down beside her. "There's absolutely no shame in asking for help."

In response, she lifted a limp arm. "But first," she croaked when Finch reached to pull her up, "please clean that egg off the floor. I can't stand it."

* * *

Despite being several layers under the savage Antarctic plains, Mildred's laboratory provided various ways to keep warm. Finch currently sat bundled next to his favorite. When the flames in the fireplace dimmed and sparked with hunger, he closed his hardcover copy of _Beowulf_ and stooped to toss in another log.

Out of the corner of his eye, Finch spotted Kitty's partially visible body cloaked in the darkness of the unlit hallway. Not wanting to scare her off, he poked and prodded at the embers roasting in the fireplace before returning silently to his chair without acknowledging her presence.

The next time he peeked over his book, she was gone.

"I've always liked this part."

Finch jolted violently at Kitty's unexpected presence beside him. "Doesn't that chair squeak?"

"I oiled it," she answered blankly and reached out to steal the book. "Want to hear how this is supposed to be pronounced? I'm real good at Old English."

Frowning slightly at the thought of Kitty still being able to sneak around undetected, Finch sighed and rested back against his chair in front of the fire. "I assume I don't have a choice, considering you've stolen the book."

Ignoring his irritated tone, Kitty announced, "I'm going to start from this other page because you've already got to the good part."

It was easy for Finch to tell why she liked the language so much. It sounded similar to modern German and flowed off her tongue with ease. As her words blurred together with a warmth mirrored only by the fireplace, it took him a moment to realize she'd stopped abruptly. Finch raised his eyebrows in surprise. "That can't have been the entirety."

"It's not," she said, sounding bored, and carelessly tossed the book onto his lap. "I just find the rest boring." Kitty wheeled herself out of the room without another word, leaving Finch utterly bemused.

* * *

Inside the massive laboratory freezers, Finch searched through an assortment of frozen fruits, veggies, and meats in preparation for dinner. Natasha had increasingly shown interest in potatoes, so he gathered ingredients for stew and headed to the kitchen. The walk down the hallway was long and chilled as the freezer itself, and by the time he reached the kitchen, Finch practically tossed the ingredients in the sink to relieve his numb hands.

Kitty wheeled into the doorway shortly after he'd filled a soup pot with water and spices. "Harold?"

"Yes?" he answered without averting his gaze from the defrosting carrots on the cutting board.

"You wanna help me make a bomb?"

Instead of reacting like he normally would, Finch tightened his grip on the carrot and closed his eyes, breathing deeply before shifting to look at her. "No, thank you."

"Okay," she said, not sounding particularly disappointed. "What are you making?"

"Stew. Hopefully."

"You sure you don't wanna help me make a bomb?"

"Yes, Natasha. I'm sure. What do you have in that box? Let me see."

Kitty narrowed her eyes mischievously. "It's not a bomb. Promise. It's better."

"Better how? If it's not a bomb, open it and let me see."

"It's a photo of my ass. Here, have a look."

"I beg your pardon?"

"It's a box of photos Root left behind for me. There's a really nice photo of my ass in here. Want to see?"

Refusing to answer, he quickly glanced up to frown his disapproval before averting his attention back towards the vegetables.

"No? Okay, how about a photo of my tits? They're a pair of the cutest tits you'll ever see, guaranteed."

Harold, keeping his eyes glued to the cutting board, held up a hand to stop Kitty from advancing with the photos. "Do not come near me," he ordered sharply.

"I thought you said you liked birds?" Kitty complained. "You could have fooled me with your gazillion fowl aliases."

"What are you talking about?" Harold sighed, exhausted.

"You've never heard of Great Tits?" she asked slyly. "Parus Major? Real common in Europe. Papa bought me a pair of them to keep me company when I was younger. Look, aren't they adorable?" The polaroid depicted a pair of black, white, and yellow birds standing atop a computer screen. "I named the one on the right Lyncis and the one on the left Leonis. They died in an electrical fire. May they rest in peace. Oh," she added as an afterthought, "here's my ass." Kitty flipped to the next photo, which displayed a picture of a small donkey. "Mama had him at the house before I went to the lab. I named him Mudak."

Finch's mouth twitched.

"I know what you thought I meant." Kitty cupped her breasts. "These two are great as well, if I do say so myself."

* * *

It was times like this when Finch felt truly alone in the world.

Relentlessly cold hallways snaked their way in every direction, so much so that even with a detailed map at his disposal, Finch found himself turned around more than once. Even the air was as uninviting as a starless night. Silence stretched on into oblivion.

Human interaction had never come easy for the genius, but even Harold had his limits. He'd been unable to find Natasha for almost three days, and he itched for noise produced by something other than the shuffling of his own shoes. Worried that she needed assistance, he continued his search. An hour later he gave up and returned to the library, finding her nestled close to the fire, a single photo gripped tightly in her boney fingers.

"I don't appreciate being abandoned," Finch admitted as calmly as he could. "We're supposed to check in with each other everyday to make sure—" He stopped walking towards her when she held out the photo.

Seeing Grace was like being hit in the stomach. Finch fumbled to slump into his reading chair to better see the polaroid of Grace sitting in a park behind an easel, a small brunette child giggling in her lap.

"Natasha," he started, unsure of how to convey his mutual understanding of loss. "I wish things could have been different for you."

 **"** It doesn't matter what we want, Finch," she whispered. "It's never mattered what we want. All that has ever mattered is that they're safe." Kitty continued to stare into the flames. "I was never going to have her. I'm not cut out to be a parent."

"I disagree." Finch smiled when she shot him a confused side-eye. "I'm not saying you wouldn't be the world's worst parent-teacher conference attendee, but you would have given this little girl your every attention."

"It doesn't matter," she sighed.

"No," Finch agreed and handed back the photo. "I suppose it doesn't."

Kitty returned the photo to the box and closed the lid before setting it beside her, safely away from the reach of the fire. Resting a hand on the rough stump where her leg had been cut, her melancholy expression hardened into a scowl.

"What are you thinking?" asked Finch, who'd noticed the change in her demeanor.

"I'm thinking that maybe Mildred is right."

Finch blinked. "Ahh . . . and which Mildred, exactly, are you referring to?"

"Maybe the world can't be run by humans anymore."

"Oh, _that_ Mildred." It was only then that he noticed the syringe tightly gripped in her hand. "Natasha, what is that? Where did you get that?"

"I hate humans," Kitty stated softly, yet more maliciously that Finch had ever heard before.

"You don't hate humans."

"Humans are the reason my life is shit, Harold."

"Do you honestly think a world run by machines would be better? Humans have flaws, yes, but that is what makes us superior—"

"Superior?" Natasha's angry voice rang through the room. All Finch could focus on was a shimmer off her canine tooth. "Superior is being able to make hard decisions without letting feelings get in the way. Without letting someone manipulate your emotions. I used to be superior, a long time ago. I used to be able to do anything and everything without feeling guilty or sad or _anything._ That's superior, Harold."

"None of what you said is true." Sitting up straight in his chair, he matched her disgruntled stare. "I think it's high time you stop hiding behind the results of your _accident,_ because then you'll have to acknowledge what the real problem is."

"And what would that be?"

"That you've always had the capacity to care." He waited for her to consider his words before continuing. "You lost someone you cared about more than words can describe, but you didn't develop those feelings in the short time after your accident. They were always there. You always cared for your sister. And if you always cared for your sister, how do you expect me to believe you don't care about any other human?"

" _Because people always force me to make them things_ ," she screamed. "That's all anybody ever wants! Nobody wants _me_. They want my inventions. They want to pick apart my brain until there's nothing left. Nobody gives a shit about _me._ Nobody," she repeated, growing louder with each sentence, "but Mildred. All Mildred _ever_ asked of me was not to be separated. I should never have left her. I should have told Papa to leave us alone. I should have fought harder to stay home. But I _did_ leave her, Harold." Finch waited for Kitty to continue, watching feebly as she slowly turned to look at him, her reddened eyes already spilling over with tears. "And now she's left me."

"Natasha," Finch's voice grew shrill when she ripped off the plastic cover of the syringe with her teeth, "give that to me, _now."_

"Goodbye, Harold."

In the seconds it took her to raise the needle over her leg, Harold had already mentally rehearsed every suggestion from Mildred's playbook, but nothing was relevant in this situation. Panic swelled at the realization that he'd never be quick enough to physically stop her from injecting herself with whatever was in that needle, and he frantically blurted out, "This is life nine!"

Kitty half squinted with a blurry-eyed confusion, her hand hovering over her thigh.

"You're on your final life. I'm sorry," he clarified, thankful, at least, that she had paused, "but you no longer have a choice. I've decided to keep you, and, therefore, you are forbidden from killing yourself."

Kitty was still for so long, nervous sweat gathered on Harold's brow.

"Here," he tried gently, "give me this." Finch carefully reached for the needle and pried it from her unresponsive fingers.

"I loved her," she whispered hoarsely. "I did. I loved her so much it _hurts_. I just want it to stop."

"I know." Finch held tightly to the syringe, growing sick with the thought of being so close to poison. He had no idea what to do with it. "Will this explode if I toss it into the fire?"

"No." Kitty wiped at her eyes. "I'm sorry."

"No, _I'm_ sorry it got to this point." Deciding at last to toss the mystery substance into the fire, Finch leaned forward in his chair. With his arms extended, he was close enough to embrace her. He was willing to do just about anything to make her better at this point. "Would you like a hug?"

Natasha flinched slightly and squinted. "No, thank you."

Finch raised his eyebrows briefly in surprise. Kitty had always taken every opportunity to indulge in physical contact before, and he knew she found comfort in it. He was quickly learning, however, that she was more complex than their short friendship would ever be able to reveal. Assured that the situation was contained for the time being, Finch tried to relax into the reading chair.

"What?" he asked a while later when she continued to stare him down with a strange expression. "What is it?"

"Nothing." Kitty blinked away more moisture, smirking sadly before continuing. "Just internalizing."


	25. Flying Fish and Drowning Cats

_2015, London, England_

"You know," said Shaw, "those two have been down there alone for . . . what? Three months?"

Root continued to stare at Mildred, who was seated behind the wheel of their getaway car. "Your point?"

"Antarctica is nothing but snow. That's a lot of icy nights together. You think they've done it yet?"

"Done what?" Root glanced in the backseat of the car, frowning when Shaw wiggled her eyebrows suggestively. "Harold is a gentleman. I'm sure he'd have some strong opinions of you suggesting otherwise."

"You're probably right. You think they've killed each other yet?"

Root rolled her eyes dismissively. "No, Shaw."

"You think she's killed herself yet?"

"Not if Harold is doing his job," Mildred chimed in. "I have faith in him."

"Well, I guess if the robot overlord has faith in him, I should too." Double-checking to make sure her earpiece was secured, Shaw opened the car door and stepped out into the street. "If you ladies will excuse me, I have some bullets that need homes."

* * *

 _Antarctica_

"I'm starting to believe you never had any real intentions of finishing these translations." Finch held up the copy of _Sir Gawain and the Green Knight_ that Kitty had begun translating for him before running off all those months ago. "I enjoyed what you've provided so far."

"If you're lucky, maybe someday I'll get around to finishing it. For now, I'm focusing on my art. Here, look." Kitty dropped her sketchpad into Finch's lap, smiling with anticipation. "Isn't he cute? Guess what I named him?"

Finch raised an eyebrow as he studied the crude sketch of some kind of aquatic animal. "Is this a seal?"

Kitty snatched the picture away. "He's a _manatee_ ," she said slowly. "I named him _Hugh_."

"How long have you been waiting to tell me that joke?"

"Three hours, twenty minutes, thirty seconds."

" _That's_ all you produced in three hours?"

"Thanks Harold," Kitty snapped. "I'm going to superglue it to your bedroom wall while you're asleep so you'll see my masterpiece even in your dreams." Turning to stare at the dying heat source in the fireplace, Kitty cocked her head curiously at the small stack of wood in a metal crate near a bookshelf. "How long until we run out of wood?"

Finch marked his place in _Beowulf_ with a scrap of paper and pushed out of his reading chair. "There's an entire room with stacks of split logs. From what I've been able to gather, once we run out of wood, the laboratory is equipped with enough fuel for us to run a heater in this room continuously for the next three years."

"Hopefully, we'll be dead by then."

Ignoring the comment, Finch asked, "I'm about to start dinner. Is there anything specific you'd like?"

"I'd like for you to get off your high horse and help me construct a bomb. Come on, Harold. Let's make it a date. You bring the wine, I bring the explosive artillery." She waggled her eyebrows. "It'll be a blast. Pun completely intended."

"I'm making spaghetti," he announced, already halfway out the door.

* * *

"What's your last name?"

Kitty had been silent for so long, the question slightly startled Finch. He finished chewing a mouthful of noodles and tapped a cloth napkin against his lips. "Finch."

"No," Kitty pressed, "I mean your real last name."

"Natasha, my name is Harold Finch."

Kitty stabbed violently at her plate, scowling as she twisted a bundle of spaghetti around her fork. "Fine, don't tell me."

"What makes you think I'm lying?"

"Just forget it."

Finch watched her angrily devour bite after bite—face smearing with crushed red tomatoes—and wondered where her sudden interest in his identity came from. "Whether you choose to believe me or not is irrelevant. Harold Finch is the name my parents gave me at birth."

"If it's your real name," she asked, looking up from her plate, "then why do you use it?"

Harold smiled at a dot of sauce caught on the very tip of her pale nose. "We are both from very different technological times, Natasha. I use my real name because no one has enough paperwork to truly comprehend my identity."

Kitty nodded and slurped the last noodle on her plate. "How much can you lift?"

"Pardon?"

"Your spine is crinkled like an accordion, so how much can you lift?"

Finch raised his fork to take another bite, reconsidered, and lowered it with a clank. "I'm afraid I'm not following."

"I want to go outside." Kitty stared at him, unblinking. "I mean, I can crawl up the stairs and out the door myself, but I'd really rather not, if I'm being honest."

"Any particular reason for your sudden need to survey the snow?"

"Snow?" she sneered dramatically. "Who cares about the snow? I want to look at the stars."

"Forgive my insolence. I should have guessed as much." Finch calculated her weight from memory, drawing upon the time she'd fallen out of her wheelchair in the kitchen. Kitty was a slender woman, but her extreme height added significant overall weight. It had been painful to lift her back into her chair, and he could only wonder how much discomfort lugging her up a flight of stairs would bring to his spine.

Kitty scrutinized his contemplative expression and slumped slightly. "Don't worry about it, Finch."

He had already decided to assist her before her reaction, but the use of his last name solidified the decision. It was his active duty to keep her happy—or at the very least _alive_ —and he didn't put it past her to sneak out of the lab unsupervised and freeze to death. "I make no guarantees that your trip out into the wide white wasteland will be glamorous, Miss Krause, but I'm certainly not about to let you crawl alone like some sort of animal."

"You say that now," she quipped cheerfully, already wheeling herself wildly into the hallway, "but I forgive you in advance if you change your mind."

* * *

Finch pulled the fox-fur lined parka tighter around his neck, but Natasha didn't seem fazed in the slightest by the below-zero flurry. Step after careful step, Finch helped support Kitty up the stairway leading out of the lab and into the white silence stretched as far as the eye could see. It had been hard enough to convince her to shrug on a parka, so Finch relented when she refused to wear a full snowsuit and sat unceremoniously in a pile of shimmering fluff.

"Mildred once gave me a book of constellations when we were children." Kitty's voice cut off as soundless as the deserted night sprawled before them. Only a crescent moon provided a dim light. "It was my most prized possession."

Finch paused before responding. This was Kitty's first mention of Mildred since her suicide attempt, and he wanted to ensure he tread delicately. "Do you know where it is?"

Kitty's minuscule smile darkened as she thought. "My father burned it. Said it was a distraction. He was angry with me for sneaking out all the time to stargaze instead of helping the other scientists program for the government." She paused, blinking. "He didn't mean to upset me. He was just frustrated is all. He wouldn't have done it if he knew how much it meant to me. Papa wasn't always nice, but he was reasonable."

"A man who irrationally destroys his child's belongings doesn't sound like a very reasonable man."

"Trust me, Papa was more than reasonable with me," she said sadly, still staring up at the sky. "I was always causing him grief."

Finch would be lying to himself if he didn't admit he was curious to learn any new information about Kitty's life, especially about her father. "How so?"

Without missing a beat, Kitty turned to meet his gaze and answered, "I used to let the scientists fuck me for stories." She paused, waiting for him to ask for clarification or chastise her for swearing, but Finch made no discernable reaction at all. "They were all pretty shitty stories, too. Mundane trips to France or Poland. Nothing interesting happened in their retellings. But I wanted to know everything. Papa was pretty angry when he found out. Kept lecturing about the sanctity of my body, but . . . I don't know. I didn't really see what the big deal was. I wanted stories, they wanted me." She shrugged. "Fair trade, in my opinion. I technically got what I asked for."

Finch fought to keep his eyebrows from flying off his face. He pondered a question in silence, realizing that all propriety had fled the conversation long ago, so it was pointless to be coy. "How old were you?"

"Thirteen. That's when it started, at least."

"Were you the youngest member?"

Kitty let out a snort. "By about forty years, yes."

Finch digested this news like a stomach full of rotten meat. He wanted to grimace or frown sadly to express his intense discomfort and disgust at Kitty's disclosure, but he knew any outward portrayal of pity would only serve to destroy whatever was encouraging Kitty to disclose details about her past.

After leaving the night air as empty as it was cold for a few moments longer, Finch finally inquired, "What are we searching for?"

Natasha sat still in the snow, staring up at the sky with a small smile. "I always seem to miss Leo, but if my memory hasn't been completely shot to hell, he should be out by now."

"Stay right here." Finch winced at Kitty's unamused glance. "I'm sorry, that wasn't meant to poke fun at your limited mobility. I'll be right back." He returned a while later with a new telescope still sealed in a box. "I know your birthday isn't for a few more months, but time is an illusion anyway, so I'm going to give it to you now."

Kitty smiled, confused. "Thanks, Harold, but you already gave me a telescope for my birthday last year."

"The telescope isn't the gift," he clarified, producing a folded piece of paper with equations on it. "This is."

Kitty eagerly reached up to snatch the paper and squinted in the moonlight. "What is it?"

"You're smart enough to figure that out on your own."

Kitty raised an eyebrow, smiling despite her irritation. "I don't get a hint?"

"The only help you'll receive from me is this." Finch clicked on a flashlight and held it above the complicated equations so Kitty could better read them. "I've also brought you a pen."

Finch watched with great interest as Kitty began crossing out numbers and drawing lines to connect detailed concepts across the page. It pleased him that it was taking longer than he originally expected for her to figure out what the incredibly intricate puzzle amounted to.

Unsurprisingly, Kitty eventually scribbled down the final number in a sequence of coordinates. "I don't get it."

"Map it out on this." Finch handed her a book of constellations. "Find the exact star."

Kitty leaned into the lens and focused the telescope on a star in the bottom left of Leo's mane. "How many times will I have to ask what the hell I'm doing before you—"

"I bought it," Harold stated in a puff of white breath. "For you."

Kitty pulled away from the lens, whipping her head in his direction. "What?"

"The star. It's bought and paid for. Its official name is Mildred Krause."

Kitty stared blankly at the man huddled near the door of the lab. She wasn't sure what she felt, but it didn't feel good—like the stomach-drop that comes when missing a step walking down stairs.

She remembered now—the night she tried to rescue Bonnie from the nightclub.

It was such a muddled memory. She'd been shot and left bleeding on the ground, when out of the fog, Harold had appeared, dragging her into his lap and trying to calm her down as she panicked about Bonnie's safety. He took her to a safehouse, and her fever quickly got so out of control, she ended up outside in the snow. Right before the darkness took her, Kitty remembered telling Harold about Mildred's star. It had been their childhood secret, after Mildred gifted Kitty the constellation book. It was their way of never truly being separated, no matter how far away they were. When they wanted to be together again, they could wait for nightfall, look up at Leo, and find one another. Mildred was the farthest star in the left side of Leo's mane, and Natasha was the left eye.

Kitty's pain went above and beyond simply missing Mildred, and it was mixed with equal parts confusion at the gift and embarrassment for not understanding what she was feeling. Kitty blinked in the darkness, unsure if she wanted to scream or weep.

In the end, she did neither. "I'd like to go back inside, Harold."

* * *

Finch wasn't sure how to respond to Kitty's reaction, so he dealt with her the same way he always did when she confused him. He waited for her to make the first move.

He didn't have to wait long.

"Harold, I have a request."

"Yes?"

"Push me as fast as you can down the hallway."

The two hadn't spoken in almost two days, so Finch found the request exceptionally strange. He tossed another log into the fireplace. "Why?"

"Because it sounds like fun, and I'm getting stir-crazy."

"If it's thrills you're looking for," he warned, "look elsewhere. I can't run much faster than a slightly speedy shuffle. You'd be better off wheeling yourself as fast as you can."

"I'm going to lose my mind, Harold."

"Here, I have an idea." Finch retrieved the master layout of the entire laboratory and set it on the floor next to Kitty's wheelchair. "What section should we explore today?"

"We have showers?" Kitty exclaimed. "This whole time we had showers, and you never said anything?"

"I was under the assumption that this was your laboratory."

"Yeah, but only because I stole it. I didn't build the damn thing." Kitty stared at the map and pointed to a room. "Take me there."

Finch smiled nervously. "Are you sure?"

"If I wasn't sure, I wouldn't have asked."

Kitty pointed to one of the few rooms Finch _had_ explored in his free time. It was a combination sauna, lap pool, and shower room. After watching Kitty drown at the cruel hands of Decima, he assumed the woman would stay as far away from water as possible, and he worried her strange request would only end in disaster. "Natasha, I've been to this room, and its full of water."

"I know that," she answered undisturbed. "So take me there."

"Natasha, I just want to make sure—"

"Am I going to have to wheel myself, or are you going exploring with me? As I recall," she snapped irritably, "this was your idea in the first place."

"Alright," he relented. "If you're certain you'd like to go there first, I'd be happy to escort you."

Thick, humid air blasted their faces as they entered the poolroom sauna. Finch's glasses immediately fogged to the point of blindness, so he removed them to rub the condensation off on his shirt. When he'd finally cleaned them well enough to see again, he noticed with confusion that Kitty was no longer right in front of him.

"Natasha?" he called, noticing at last that the young woman was furiously steering the wheelchair towards the deep end of the pool. "Natasha? _Natasha!_ " But it was too late. As the wheelchair reached the lip of the pool, it tottered forward, flinging the young woman out into the water with a monstrous splash.

Finch lurched forward, fueled by terror as memories of watching her drown flooded his mind. He had no time to question why she'd done it. All he could do was focus on getting her back onto land.

It had been a long time since he'd last gone swimming, and the warm water swallowed him whole like a welcoming embrace. Heated to a temperature best suiting a comfortable bath, the water was a drastic change from the rest of the freezing laboratory. It was only unfortunate that these were the circumstances in which he tested them out.

Grabbing onto the back of Kitty's shirt, Finch clenched his fingers tightly against the fabric and kicked to the surface, breaking through with a gasp of pain. A thousand jellyfish stings coursed through his back, bringing white behind his eyelids, but his grip on Natasha never wavered.

"Let go," Kitty angrily protested, eyes closed, as she choked on a mouthful of water. "I can do it myself."

"Stop, Natasha. You're going to drown us both."

"Let go of me!" she screamed, lashing out and breaking free of Harold's grip. Lost in a tangle of flailing limbs, Kitty quickly sank to the bottom again, despite her best efforts to paddle with her arms. This time when Finch dove down to retrieve her, she latched onto him until he propelled them both to the stairs and pulled her back onto dry land.

"You're alright," he soothed. "No need to be afraid."

"I'm . . . not," she stuttered violently, "afraid."

"You're trembling," he mused softly. "You need to calm down." Finch ran a comforting hand up and down her arms in an effort to stifle her panic. "Breathe, Natasha. That's it. Deep breaths. There we go." When Kitty continued to suck in sporadic and unregulated chunks of air, he pulled her closer, so she could lean against his chest. "Easy does it. Breathe."

"Stop talking to—" she wheezed, "—me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like I'm pathetic."

"You're not pathetic. You're having a panic attack. Redirect your misguided anger with me towards focusing on breathing."

"I'm . . . not," she repeated, softer this time, "afraid."

"To what? Drown? You've made it abundantly clear on many occasions that you do not fear death."

"No," she clarified through chattering teeth, despite the sweltering humidity. "I'm not . . . afraid . . . of water."

"We all fear something, Natasha." Finch watched as she continued to tremble as if she'd gone swimming outside in the snow. Sighing heavily, he swallowed his pride. "Kitty?"

Natasha didn't stop shaking, but her expression shifted from a wide-eyed dread to a wide-eyed alarm at the use of her nickname.

"I want to tell you a story," said Finch. "Something very private. But only if you take deep breaths and calm yourself."

Kitty immediately sucked in a lungful of air and held it as long as she could before shakily exhaling. Again and again she attempted to lower her heart rate, but it was a few minutes before she made any significant progress. Exhausted by the entire ordeal, she rested heavily against Harold's chest, dripping water onto his already soaked shirt. "I'm better," she whispered. "What's the story?"

"I know what you're feeling." Without realizing it, Finch reached up and rested a hand against the back of her head. "About your sister. About believing you're the reason she's dead. I've often wondered that myself . . . how much of our actions, or lack thereof, are responsible for the fate of others?" He paused, steeling himself to talk about a subject he rarely even brought up in therapy sessions, back when he still sought answers. "I've only ever had one true friend, and I—"

Remembering his retelling of Nathan while in a drug-induced state, Kitty entwined her fingers with the fingers of his free hand. "You don't have to talk about Nathan, Harold. I remember the story you told me in the hotel."

"Fear . . ." It was a relief to hear he wasn't required to dig up old memories of his beloved friend, but now the problem was trying to put into words what he felt in his heart. "Fear is natural, and despite what many people will try to tell you, Kitty, fear is not the mark of weakness. It is only how we choose to deal with our fears that can be constructive or destructive." Finch recollected that afternoon, right after waking from the bombing. "After I woke from unconsciousness, the first thing I did was reach back and feel my neck. I felt blood on my fingertips . . . felt the damage the detonation had done to my spine . . . and I was afraid. For the first time in my life, Kitty, I was truly afraid." He glanced down to meet her eyes, strangely comforted by the understanding he found in them. "And I've been afraid ever since."

Their faces were so close, Kitty could feel his breath when he spoke. "I don't want to be afraid anymore," she confided. "Will you teach me to swim? Or at least float?"

Finch let out an anxious laugh. "I'd be happy to. But I'm not so sure today is a good day to begin our lessons. What do you say we start fresh tomorrow?"

"Fine by me." Lifting an arm up in anticipation for Finch to help hoist her back into the wheelchair, Kitty frowned at the realization that the chair was still in the pool. "Harold, I'm afraid you'll have to conduct one last deep sea exploration before we can get the hell out of here."

"Yes, I'm aware the wheelchair is still safely nestled at the deep end of the pool."

Kitty laughed at his annoyed expression but cut off mid-giggle, eyes widening in what looked like immense fear.

"What?" asked Finch, immediately on his guard. "What is it?"

Kitty's lips parted slightly, her jaw bouncing up and down without any words coming out. Blinking confusedly like a deer in headlights, she grabbed hold of her remaining leg and positioned it straight on the floor in front of her. "Harold," she whispered, sounding frightened. "Harold, _look_."

Finch followed her gaze, his eyes landing on her wet foot. As a droplet of pool water dangled precariously off the tip of her big toe, Finch watched—open mouthed and as utterly speechless as Natasha herself—as the toe twitched.


End file.
